Unbroken
by Silver Blazen
Summary: When unexpected hope pushes the darkness away, Steve and Natasha must risk everything to protect their baby even if it must means to pay the high price of sacrifice. To come out alive from the nightmares of HYDRA, they must become anchors against the raging storms ahead and accept their failures as old ghosts emerge from their shattered reflections. (Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron)
1. Chapter 1

**Unbroken**

**All characters rightfully belong to Marvel Comics and Disney**

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**{Preface}**

She felt it. It was a constant and unnatural pulse spreading through her body. Pain had always been nonexistent. At the moment of sucking in the gelid air, Natasha realized her life was forever changing. The endless winter of her past was thawing into a new hope without feeling numb and isolated from the world around her.

At first, Natasha felt like she was entering an infinite void of choice and emotion—feeling directionless and lost in her own weaves of guilt that sheltered her from the truth—she was human and she could feel tears sodden over her ivory flesh when a knife stabbed her heart.

Staggering, Natasha crunched her boots over the mounds of snow and rubble while drawing out a deep breath; her green eyes instantly locked onto guiding light before her, and she was staring at his intense and chiseled profile: there he was the noble and chivalrous leader—Captain America—the First Avenger. He stood only a foot away with a sincere look gleaming in his intense cerulean blue eyes as he trained his keen vision on the rising smoke in the distance. The scenic view beyond the battle zone was ashen fortress for marble stone that seemed indistinct with the glow of firelight.

The roaring and fierce sounds of the raging Hulk engulfed the area; foundations crumbled to the leveled ground. Obstruction was everywhere, piles of cement bricks, smoldering timbers and turned up black SUV's. It wasn't the perfect spot to spending New Year's Eve, but they were the daring, uncompromising and stubborn Avengers, they protected the lives of the world; and spent their days battling the unknown while keeping blood pumping in their veins.

"Hey, Nat," Clint's gruff voice sounded in her ear piece, trying to capture her attention from his perch. He crouched down at a vacant peak of the bell tower, his black arrows readied and aiming at the marked target caught in his sharp gray eyes. "Do you mind giving me a little elbow room?"

Natasha smirked in response, and sidestepped, standing in front of the compromised jeep. "Is that enough room for you, Agent Barton?" she asked, listening at arrow slice through the frigid air and penetrate a moving AIM agent closing in on Steve's position. She turned around, staring back at Clint with her shimmering teal eyes locked on the shadows cloaked over his muscular form, as the faint brush of moonlight bathed over her ivory skin. The loose waves of scarlet locks fell down to her shoulders, they were messy and unkempt. She pressed in the center of her wrist gauntlet and the Widow Bites were glowing with hue of electronic neon blue as she felt adrenaline pump faster in her veins. "I can't believe Fury sent us out in the middle of nowhere without backup..." her voice dragged out.

"We've got Captain America and the Hulk, how much backup to you want, Nat?" Clint retorted back, lowering his crossbow. "Besides I know why you're on the edge tonight...And it's not because you're multitasking."

"Careful, Agent Barton," Natasha played out with a dark grin curling on his glossy pink lips; she removed her handgun from a leg hostler, misinterpreting the constant signs of distress whirling in her gut. "I might make you dance tonight."

Clint shook his head, amused by the threat in her evened voice, "So when you are going to tell, Rogers?" he began, unable to finish as she aimed the muzzle of her gun directly at him.

She sighed, "There is nothing to tell," she exclaimed, lowering her gun to her side. "This is my burden to carry out, not his. I want you to pretend that you're in the dark about this, Clint, until the right time comes."

Huffing out a frustrated breath, Clint nodded at her words. "Why do you always have to make things complicated?" he questioned, looking down pensively at the red-haired spy. "I know you're a master at keeping secrets, but this is something that shouldn't be left in the shadows...Especially since it concerns both of you."

"Let me handle this," Natasha hissed, syllables rumbled out her throat. She closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall as Steve's towering presence held her captive, she felt his body heat radiating over her chilled skin; and he looked dangerous. His slick and broad muscles underneath the layers dark royal blue Kevlar reeked of masculine strength. He wouldn't look at her, wouldn't speak, not because of the war zone they had fallen into when Tony intercepted a distress call at the Avenger Tower; they were divided and tension of was blockading them from each other.

She watched his heavy jaw clenched as he gripped her trim shoulder with a gentle squeeze. Although, he wouldn't admit it, Steve sensed the forbidden need between them; temptation, uncontrolled urges and sheer hunger. He started to stalk away, but she seized his gloved hand the moment his heavy leather boots crunched over the glass beneath his empowering stature.

"Natasha," he whispered, and her aching heart ceased, he looked deeply, into her obscured green eyes. She could't avert her gaze away from him. "Why have you been avoiding me?"

Steve's hand rested on her shoulder, fingers curled over the muscle. His shield protected her upper back as his forearm splayed over her exposed neck. His breath coiled on her blemished skin, and he seemed...His full lips twitched. He lowered his unyielding eyes down all the while feeling his heart lapping against his firm chest. He detected her emotional distress that writhed in her veins. "What's wrong, Nat?"

Natasha pressed her lips into a taunt line, gripping his arm and clenched into her nails dug into his skin, but the discomfort that built in the wake of her hold caused him to give her a serious look. "I haven't been avoiding you, Steve. I just needed space. You know space?"

"Isn't that avoiding someone, Natasha?" Steve questioned, staring beyond on the invisible mask she wore. "If we going to make it work between us, no more secrets, we need to be true with our feelings. That means no more lying to me."

This felt ridiculous, and unreal, and sickening.

For a vague moment, Natasha felt like the whole world was tilting, His densely muscular body hovered closer to hers, hard and invasive and the only words that she could think of fell onto her lips, "When have I ever lied to you, Rogers?" she asked, the obvious question, that clearly left him unfazed, but shot condemnation back within her.

A soft rumble vibrated through his chest. She was trying to downplay his emotions. "That's not the point; you disobeyed my orders, and engaged with without properly assessing the situation. Two citizens are dead, Natasha." he grounded out, displeasure ragged up his throat. "Two lives that we needed to protect. We afford mistakes on the battlefield; each time we enter crossfire their lives are in our hands."

Natasha blinked incredulously, "People die every day, Steve." she replied, in a nonchalant tone.

Rage solidified in Steve's chest like burning embers hardening into jaded piece of glass. Pressure built, and built, crushing against his rib bones, until his blue eyes filled with ire and his fist clenched tight enough for her to hear his knuckles crackling under the leather of his gloves. "People never die on my watch, Natasha." he interjected, firmly. "You acted careless, more concern about your own life than the ones around you." He withdrew a step, back, looking at her, really looking at her, but lifting his chin up as he pressed his earpiece. "Stark, I need you on the ground. We have wounded civilians who need aerial evac-"

"I care about lives, Steve," Natasha interrupted his set of commands, standing on solid ground between him and the desolation of leveled buildings. Iron Man descended, scooping up a young mother and her son into his metallic embrace. The Hulk was violently throwing pieces of stone into the air; searching for survivors and Clint was still positioned in the tower, listening to their whole conversion. She gritted her teeth, and pulled the comm out of her ear, tossing it to the ground. "I care about the life growing inside of me, Rogers..."

Steve creased his eyebrows with disquieted look, "What do you mean that you're care about the life growing..." He said in a wispy and unsettled voice, sealing his lips shut, as a sudden wave silence fell over him. Another clueless blink and his massive body jerked. He took a few steps back; his lips were trembling and icy blue orbs wide. "You're…" he paused as the words tugged harshly at the depths of his throat "…pregnant?" Steve felt all the words cease inside his vocal cords. He shock as his feet carried him to the heap of rubble, and his shaky hand clutched the contortion of iron wire poking from the wedges of stone. "Wait, you're saying that you're..." His voice was caught by uncertainty and barely registered those words and it reflected on his stern breath evened out. "I mean that you're really..."

Natasha rolled her eyes and stood in front of him, and then clamped her hand over his lips, preventing him from babbling, "I'm having a..." Baby. The word latched against her throat, her heart protested for relief. It was a pretty big distraction to make the super-soldier take his focus off the danger. Her mind became invaded with spiraling thoughts of clustering words. The truth that was edging over her lips was ready for launch. It was unrealistically difficult to believe that his baby-Captain America's bloodline and legacy was growing _impossibly healthy_ inside her marred and barren womb.

She clenched her jaw, breathing as constant images of her operations flashed violently in her mind; she was unmade by chemicals pumped inside her veins, medical tools tearing through flesh, and extraction and contortions of her uterus. They didn't care about the loss of her womanhood; the pain and high fevers she experienced as a fourteen year girl who had been altered into a killing machine with no sense of humanity, no existence of hope, just a hollow coldness that kept her barred under their commands. Steve. He restored her. His super-serum held the answers to unlock her true being, she loved him. "I'm...What I'm trying to say is do you remember when I was in your apartment with a bullet in my shoulder..."

When Steve detected her unspoken discomfort, he gingerly inched towards her, his steady blue eyes absorbed her still body as he pressed himself against the length of her. His bare pectorals traced over her tender breasts as he looked at the misery etched over her soft features. She was miserable. He felt her flinched as his weight dug into her body and she made no effort to push him away as he aligned flatly against her, blanketing his body heat into her tense bones.

Soothingly, he ran his smooth palm up at the curve of her cheek, framing her face with both of his steady hands. Warmth seeped from his fingertips and into her skin, as she slipped opened her eyes and stared into his with gentleness that he never expected to see from her dark green irises.

Steve couldn't move; all bodily functions had frozen and failed to grasp any appropriate words in response to what he'd just heard. His blue eyes were wide and blinking; the disbelief and joy swelled in his chest as he looked between her and the aftermath of AIM destruction-a world that he had been sucked into ever since he emerged from the rebirth chamber. He saw the darkness, depravity and opposition. He also saw goodness in the tiniest of places; he fought to protect those glimmers of hope every day, not only as Captain America, but as a defiant soldier—good man.

His lips curled and the thrill of moment welled in his tender blue eyes as he captured every detail of the depth of her eyes, and then he dropped a nourishing kiss on her lips as he felt her body loosen against him.

Natasha responded instantly to his soft kiss, fully capturing his mouth as he plunged himself deeper as she felt the symptoms of her pain melt into the waves of pleasure and comfort. She slowly closed her eyes, feeling his lips bruise themselves along the groves of her neck and she enclosed her arms around his shoulders, finger threading through his blonde strands and breathed out a satisfied sigh, and when he lifted his head to kiss her again.

When she used her lips as distraction, she broke the truth out to him, "I'm pregnant, Steve." she whispered, feeling everything collapse around her in a slow pace, until she felt her bladder twinge and the urge woke her up out of the blissful daze. "I'm having a baby..."It still felt unnatural to her. "I mean we're having a baby..."

He suddenly fell silent, feeling surprised and uncertainty engulfed him because of those soft and true words. He knew she wasn't lying. A chill swept over him then, it was one foreboding that set warning bells blaring in his mind, alerting him that it wasn't her method of deception. It was genuine_. You're losing it soldier. There's no way she is pregnant. Maybe I shot with a hallucinate toxin-She is good at lying-it's her greatest strength of deception to use over men. There is just no way she could be._..He thought desperately to convince himself. He shook off the unease settling over him and resolved to continue his mantra.

Pregnant...

"You're pregnant, Natasha..." Steve said, breathless, and overwhelmed and his chiseled face appeared to become crestfallen. His steps receded an inch from her as the truth landed onto his heart. After giving a deep inhalation of breath, he focused shamelessly on her trim waist. "You told me that you couldn't have a baby-baby because of what they did to you in the Red Room..." his voice trailed away, and he tentatively reached out a hand to touch her stomach, the more his body protested him to feel truth concealed in her womb. "How can this be possible?"

"Well, it seems that your super-serum heals any form of scarring." She gave him a faint smile, placing her hand over his set jaw. "Even the deepest wounds that can't heal, Steve."

"You mean I'm going to be a father...A daddy?" Steve his lips quivered up into a smile, a flow of tears escaped from his crystal blue eyes as they crinkled. He encompassed his hand over her stomach. He was smiling; despite of the chaos and death around him, he was beaming, looking ecstatic with fatherly radiance, shielding his growing child with the warmth of his hand.

"Natasha," he choked out, stealing a glance at the unease look in her eyes. Fear and bleating pain twisted in his whirling gut. He had to be more than the super-soldier to her—Steve Rogers and Captain America had to make the pledge of protection to keep her and his child safe from danger—they were his ultimate mission. Despite his own struggles, he knew that she needed him as shield and comfort to keep her sheltered from the storms. "It's going to be alright, I'm going to be with you until the end," he promised, feeling his heart jerking wildly in his chest. He lifted her hand, dropping a kiss, the wet heat of his lips over her frigid knuckles. They held each other's stare. "I will never leave your side...We're in this together, Nat...We're having a baby."

"A baby," she wrapped her hands over her stomach; pulling his hands onto the leather encased over their growing child. "It's not going to be easy, Rogers."

He smiled and brushed her red hair back from with a gentle caress of his fingers as her fingers moved down to the muscular planes of his drenched back. "I know, but we're survivors, soldiers and Avengers, Nat." He gave her a weak smile."We protect lives...and now we're protecting this precious life."

He massaged his gloved fingers over her womb in circular motion. He leaned into her. Their hearts pounded to the same beat.

"I love you, Natasha," he said honest and true against her lips." If you think I'm mad about the circumstances that led to this moment, I'm not because it was both of us who made the choice that night," he affirmed. His face looked deep and serious, as the fingers of his free hand threaded through her scarlet curls. And then her eyes burned and she started to cry into his shoulder.

Hearing the measure of devotion in his voice, Natasha started to cry, but it was tears filled with pain, these droplets that leaked from her soul were release from captivity. She had been liberated from the cloying misery of her past. Tension shivered through her limbs as she sobbed into the blue material of his uniform and Steve held her close.

She sniffled a little, trying to mask her emotions. "Is that the honest truth, Rogers?" she asked, rearing her head away from his shoulder.

"I'm always honest, Natasha," he whispered mirroring her tears, and traced his thumb under her eyes. He pressed his softened lips along her jaw; tasting the splendor of her skin as he moved his lips on hers, and then kissed her in a way that made her toes curl.

She wrapped her arms tighter around his torso and guided him into a surge of passion as both of them felt their fears and doubts pour out from their bodies all the while feeling the faint pulse of their new world—their child.

Their baby.

The sickness in her stomach dissolved, and Natasha felt her damaged and frozen heart melted into slush as his lips caressed the corner of her mouth.

The rumble of straying pieces of stone jostled in her bones, but he lifted his arm above her head; the alloy shield protecting her from stray pieces of stone cascading from the jagged edges of deteriorating wall supports.

Breathing, Natasha closed her eyes, pressing her face against his solid chest while caressing soothing heat over the cradle of her womb where their baby nested securely inside; away from the terrors and gray shades of the world.

She didn't want to open her eyes, and force herself to doubt once more that it was all a dream, but when she meet his loving blue eyes, and saw the clear hope shining through shadows of his past, and she knew that everything was going to be alright, because they were strong, stubborn and defiant. They, Captain America and Black Widow were fighters and survivors through the clouds of the darkest of wars.

They were going to make it out alive together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Unbroken**

**{Chapter 2}**

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Three days later...

"Pull yourself together soldier," he chanted as hot beads of water rained over strained muscles that were aggregated from his hard and pressing workout in Clint's hay stacked filled barn had slowly breathed relief against the sensation of heat pelting against his nude form. Steve opened his feverish blue eyes, blinking as splashes of water prickled against his long lashes.

All he saw was half empty shampoo bottles and soap bars on shelves. His thoughts swirled. His mouth hung lamely open, and his lips caught the drops as he tasted water tricking down his raw throat. Frozen. His hand pressed against the wet tiles. His heart swelled as he caught a glimpse of Natasha's body wash. Daring himself, he popped the cap, and held the bottle close to his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of strawberry—vanilla. His senses came alive as he nearly dropped the bottle in the wake of his thudding heart beat.

Steve shifted with a light groan. He was displaced. Everything was piling on his chest. The weight of responsibly and the protection of his growing child.

The fear knotted in his veins of fighting his enemies to spare the baby's life while they dangled it on strings in front of him. He know that his baby would become a weakness—a leverage that HYDRA or AIM would use to break him. He didn't know how to respond to the torrent rush of emotions that pinned him against the wall.

He was bewildered and aware that it came down to protecting the mother of his child—Natasha.

The world slowed around him. A cold and temperate calming brushed over his rigid muscles, he wasn't aware of the tears mixing in the water and steam. He didn't notice the old pain releasing from the battle scars that had raked over his heart from the day he failed to reach for Bucky's wounded hand when his red pounded in his mind and doubt controlled every wiring thought. He felt those burdens of guilt weighing upon his shoulders. He never unveiled them to anyone, because they alone were his to carry. He could hardly think. He knew this was home. Natasha ans his baby. He questioned himself, burying those words that become ingrained in his flesh and bone. "Will I be strong enough?" he said, inhaling the frothing clouds of steam.

Then he remember having a conversation with Clint Barton after surviving the AIM attack in borders of Bucharest Romania. They were sitting in a beaten and cobblestone tavern, sharing a glass of Țuică while trying to ease new battle wounds and the building tension formulating in their victorious bodies.

Natasha was pregnant. Clint was protective. And Steve was still trying to grasp the truth. _"You can't freak out about this, Rogers." Clint said in a hushed voice. He pressed his back against the wall and lifted a half emptied glass blatantly to his lips, observant and trying to get a reading on Steve's emotional disposition. His gray eyes looked at the displaced super soldier sitting across from him, arms crossed and sky blue eyes held a firm gaze. Undaunted, the archer continued, "Natasha is good at hiding her emotions and manipulating men to what she wants. I feel sorry for you...Pregnant and a lethal operative. Not a good combination for someone who is out of experience."_

_Steve leveled a hardened stare, sighing in disbelief. His whole body was sagged and exhausted. He sat was sitting upright, leaning forward attentively, his arms folded on the table; straining the amount of muscle that constricted under his leather jacket. He frowned. "I still can't believe this is happening...I never thought I would be a father. I love kids, but I haven't had much experience with them." he shamefully admitted. His eyebrows creased into uncertain expression and blue eyes looked utterly distant. "I'm still trying to adapt to this new world-How will I raise a son or daughter with no understanding on how everything works without a machine-I-I mean a cordless pocket phone telling you to turn left?"_

_Clint smirked at that, amusement was clearly etched in his rugged features. "Everything will be fine." He said in low and assuring syllables."As long has you have trust in Nat you're going to make it out alive, Cap."_

_"Yeah..." Steve grinned a little and lifted his glass up, laying all his attention on his new legacy growing inside Natasha's womb. His chiseled features rearranged into a stoic expression. A ragging breath emerged out of his chest. "I just hope I can be strong enough..." His low voice trailed. He looked into Clint's eyes, looked and tried to see the assurance welled beyond the grayish chasms, he couldn't. Not entirely. His own blue eyes narrowed and heart splintered and trembled that he couldn't feel his pulse for at least a few seconds. Was this a blessing or a reward for his sacrifices? Was it another test that heaven bestowed upon him? Whatever it was, he knew one thing was ascertain. Natasha and him were beginning a new life into this real world of lies and deceptions. Their baby will grow up to become a future Avenger_—_a protector and shield to new generations._

_Clint put his glass down, and spoke the truth. "Steve, listen to me, your entering her world. A world that is dangerous and unpredictable. She will always have enemies hunting her down. You need to keep her safe. Don't let her run or hide. Keep her out of the dark." He paused and felt his heart pinch. "If she does run, Nat always goes where she first started to face her fears." He slipped a piece of paper across the table. "She always goes back to Russia...A dance school owned by the late Andrei Shostakov. It is the only home the Black Widow runs to..."_

_Steve's stomach churned. He tried to display inward strength. He felt his heart twisting. Andrei Shostakov was a devil in disguise. He was held accountable of butchering young women if they showed compliance to his orders. Ballet was a foil of deception into training young girls to become operatives. Peggy Carter wrote the information down in the notes she kept in storage for him. He knew the extent of the horrors created in the Red Room. He never dared to open Natasha's KBG file._

_ After taking a gulp of the drink, and allowing it to burn down his throat, Steve gave Clint a short nod as he took the paper and stuffed it into a pocket._

_"Understood, Agent Barton." he affirmed, he used the voice of Captain America, defiant, confident and resilient._

_"Good," Clint said, easing his stiff muscles against the chair. Everything was tightening into knots. The only ease that would decrease the aches was a hot shower. Settling his glass down, and shifted his eyes to the bar while he rose from the booth."Now, I'm going to tell the bartender to put everything on Stark's tab." _

_He paused in mid step, feeling the need to help his friends experience a safe and wonderful nine months. His wife Laura gave him instructions to ask Steve if he would move into their overly large farmhouse. It was a safe haven to raise a family. Clearing his throat, he took a moment to regather his words and looked at the soldier with brotherly gaze. "Listen, in case you need a place to stay. __ A secured and well protected off the radar kind of place...My farmhouse has lots of room minus my rowdy and spoiled kids," He offered with a gruff chuckle. "What I'm trying to say, Steve, is that my family would be more than happy to welcome you and Nat into our home," he insisted, refusing to allow Natasha to sleep in a cluttered unprotected apartment in Brooklyn. "If that's what you want?"_

_Composed to answer the archer, Steve gave him a light humble smile, the soldier inside of him agreed. He needed to keep Natasha and his child safe."I think it's better that Natasha is out of the city during her pregnancy. "Yes, I will accept your offer." he inhaled deeply as he words fell silent. He narrowed his eyes to his hand and traced a finger a vein. It was a all daunting for him to understand, that the same surge of enhanced strength, speed and agility_—_the life blood of Captain America was now merging with his baby. He couldn't pretend to hide his concerns of the future and the dangers that his child would face under the shadows of the Avengers, but he had to stay positive and enjoy this new chapter of his life. He was going to be a father. That's all that mattered. "Thank you, Clint for allowing us to share your home with your family."_

_Clint nodded in return, "Don't mention it, Steve." he smiled. "Natasha is already an aunt to my kids. They adore her." He placed his hand on super-soldier's shoulder. "__When we arrive on American soil, I'll have Laura rearrange the guest bedroom, and then ask Stark to start designing the nursery in the Avenger's Tower. We're one big family on this new mission, Cap. You're not alone."_

_Steve opened his mouth to protest, but then clamped it shut before he said anything. He'd allowed his instincts to trust Clint and then put all of focus on Natasha and the baby. He turned his blue eyes on her_— _his Natasha_— she was l_eaning against the bar dressed in leather stealth uniform, glowing and still while sipping a glass of ice tea. Her scarlet hair looked disheveled and ivory features smudged from the battle. Her green eyes held a dangerous allure as he fell into her trance, and walked closer to the bar. A smiled bloomed across her obscured face when she looked at the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and she never broke eye contact._

_"You didn't have to risk your neck out there for me," she whispered, placing the glass down. She felt her bladder twinging. "I know how to protect myself, Steve."_

_His blue eyes became glassy with building moisture, and his gaze softened. There was resistance in his baritone. "You're the mother of my child. I am obliged to risk everything to keep you safe."_

_"If we're in this together, Rogers. There needs to be some rules set between us. Obviously trust is no longer the issue, but personal space is something that needs to become addressed. I know you want to keep me and our baby safe...I know how to fight for my life, Steve. I've been doing it all of my life."_

_Natasha brushed her palm over his chiseled jaw. A faint stubble scraped over her fingers, but his skin was soft and smooth. When she drew her fingers into his blonde hair, a wave of intense nausea struck her. Wincing, she tore herself away, and nestled her arms over her womb, but she refused to show weakness in front of him. _

_"This is all new to me, Steve. Having a baby...A baby that will become just like you. Strong and fearless." Dread formed a lump in her throat. She needed to hear the security in his voice."I want you to be at my side...Not as Captain America, but as Steven Grant Rogers."_

_Steve gripped her shoulder. He tried to regain his clarity. In such a distant past, he'd already seen death and turmoil that became ingrained in his flesh and bone._

_He had dreams of engaging battles with Howling Commando's facing HYDRA in the snow topped forest of Eastern Europe_—_ some that had a strange recollection when he dared to venture into the memories of James Barnes_—_the blue flames of the Winter Soldier fried his heart each time he looked back to the moment when the graphite __mask clanged on the cement and the ghostly figure turned and looked at him with dead and cold eyes. Almost a electronic gaze of a programmed machine. Something beyond the chrome and metal wiring was his best friend. He avowed to find him again_—_he also had a baby coming into the world—a future where nothing was certain just surviving and living with the woman he loved. "I'll be right where you need me to be, Nat," he said, holding that promise in his voice. ...with you."_

_Her green eyes sparkled, despite her morning sickness, briefly containing the availing pain within her body. She wanted to melt into his broad arms. "How are we going to survive? Everyone that has a vendetta against us will want our baby, Steve?" she whispered as her lips curled into a frown, and she nuzzled into his the firm planes of his chest. Her muscles tightened as his mouth brushed heat against her jaw. "We need to keep this in the dark. Only a smile circle can know about this big secret."_

_"Affirmative," he responded as he voice dropped deep and low against her skin. "I want you to relax." He caressed his lips along the curve of her jaw. "I'll handle everything."_

_She smirked darkly, lifting her head up to meet his clear trusting gaze. "I think I might get used to this..."_

_He faintly smiled, and enveloped a warm kiss over her lips. They pressed together, not moving just feeling the other's heart beating. "I can tell you're looking forward to ordering me around," he said against her skin. His hands threaded gently through her ringlets, and his warmth filled her. "Just breathe, Natasha."_

_She closed her eyes, and breathed out her fears._

_Steve rested his forehead against hers. Their noses mashed with gentle pressure. He dropped his hand down, and massaged soothing heat over her tender womb. She stared into his piercing blue eyes._

_"I love you, Natasha." he said, with no hesitation. Just pure truth._

_"I love you too, Steve." she echoed. He tilted her head back just slightly and crushed a wet kiss of pure compromising heat over her lips. The world around them faded and they both closed their eyes on that moment when their damaged and guarded hearts became whole with love, trust and hope._

Cold water gushed over his skin, awakening his senses at a rapid rate, Steve snapped his eyes open and instantly reached for the handle. He shivered. His muscles seized and heart clenched as memories of suffocating under the black of dark ice invaded his mind. He trembled against feverish waves of panic which erupted within, breathed faltered and eyes sealed closed as he dropped to his knees and hugged his body.

Steve panted, each raspy breath brought a trickling brush of ice up his throat. "No," he wheezed, hot pained filled eyes slopped down his razor-edged cheeks. "Wake up, Rogers..." A frail whisper managed to escape through gritted teeth.

"Steve!" Natasha yelled, racing into the bathroom, she opened the glass door, and felt the coldness penetrated through her bones.

"I can't get out!" he roared, slamming his fists with shattering force against the tiled wall. "Too much-ice- ice!"

_A star carved into the black ice above him, red expanded of the engraved shape. Blood. Dark and flowing through the cracks. It split over his shield._

Natasha crouched to his level, wrapping her arms over his bare and wet muscles "Hold on to me, Steve," she whispered, squeezing his shoulders like a vice, unyielding. Her lips pressed over the side of his and she took his speeding pulse.

She felt the world tilt underneath her. She never experience life trapped in a impasse of choice and emotion. Many of times when she reached a point of uncertainty, she relied on the instincts that the demons of the Red Room ingrained into her.

The world around her had changed in only a short period of time, and she had become absent from the halcyon awareness and the night terrors of being strapped onto a medical table, a gloved hand encompassed over her mouth and medical instruments piecing through compromised flesh.

_Her eyes stilted opened, and she stared at the harsh light beaming over her feverish skin. Feeling trapped in a muzzily half darkened world. The place between a dream and subconscious, when where she could feel a sharp puncture invade her arm and a gush of liquid surging in her veins. Heart pounded in her ears, and everything grew distance. She felt everything_—_pulses of jagged __energy and coldness. A terminal brush of fear against her rigid bones._

_ She trembled and fluttered, resigning in the thralls of pain, an staring a phantasms of bloodied figures looming in front of her with gloves clutching tools— she couldn't move. Colds hands applied pressure over her shoulders and a scream wrapped around her vocals. When a woman's hand encompassed a cloth over her chilled lips she drifted into a red glow, and felt pain enter the lower part of her strained abdomen. They had stolen something from her_—_a piece of her humanity._

She had been scarred, deep and mortified by those operations and forms of inhumane terror that butchered her womb and took away every piece of her humanity -dissecting and removing her soul and reshaping the matter into a form of perfection.

Everything had been a mess in her lithe form for a long time. Layers of her were now slowly threading back together as she felt security, warmth and contentment. Her lower body ached, readjusting to the growing clump of merging cells solidifying in her womb. A new was nestled inside of her—a tiny soul that shared half of Steve's DNA and hers. It was their baby. A son or daughter.

_"I can't explain it Miss Romanova and I know its hard for you to understand. I have analyzed the blood and urine tests and the results are positive." Natasha felt her vision dim into swirling tunnel as she listened to the doctor words echo in her dulled ears. It was a routine physical. What did he mean by positive? Did she come in contact with an airborne toxin during her last recon mission in Spain? Or was it something far worse?_

_Violation__._

_Natasha tapped her polished nails against the sheet of paper crinkling underneath her. "What do you mean positive?" she asked with a bit in her voice._

_She blankly stared at the silver haired doctor sitting on the wheeled stool, reading over her chart."When we checked the results of your blood levels we have discovered that the super-solider serum in Captain Steven Roger's blood has merged with your cells. Whatever scarred tissue your body sustained all these years after being harmed back in Russia. It has healed."_

_Natasha felt her senses come alive and bile in her stomach churned. Blood ran in torrents through her body. She felt immobilized, unable to think or speak in those few moments she heard the doctor reveal the truth. The air filled with a combination of tension and sweat. "I understand that you had an operation done that caused you to be barren...Unable to conceive?"_

_She nodded wordlessly, heart felt it dropped three levels from her chest. "It was a necessary in order for me to survive." She focused her gaze back on the chart. _

_"The test results display a positive reading." He narrowed his dark eyes to the chart, and then held his lips into a gentle smile as he looked directly into her owlish green eyes,"Congratulations, Miss Romanova, you and Captain Rogers are having a baby. As of today, your six weeks into the first trimester."_

_ Natasha kept her toned arms enclosed over her ample breasts, protective and resistant. Splotches of red invaded her vision as the queasy feeling of bile riding up her throat prevent her from reacting to the shocking news. "How can this be even possible?"_

_The doctor flipped through the documents, she didn't look convinced. "Captain Rogers' body can undergo rapid cellular regeneration. Any injury he sustains can heal faster than the avenge human. You now carry that seem form of prime conditioning of the healing factor is inside you,__ Miss Romanova. In theory, whatever internal scarring the chemical enhancements had done to your biology the cells have been restored and damage tissue no longer exists. In nine months you will be giving birth to healthy baby with the same abilities as Captain America."_

_The Russian spy took a breath. Her body tensed. Tears filled her eyes as she crumpled with straying tears flowing over her ivory polished cheeks. She didn't know how to respond, but her heart beat halted to stop as she dared a glance at her trim stomach and tentatively caressed a slow and calm touch over her womb. It was no longer emptied or seared with disjointed tissue. It was restored. Steve gave her a wonderful gift. A blessing that proved his love and unbreakable devolution towards her. The soldier soldier serum penetrated deep within her, healed all marred wounds and made her whole again._

_"I'm pregnant..." Her lips broke a part in a sharp and disquiet filled gasp; feeling everything surge within her. Emotions overcame the olden phantoms of pain. She felt the stirrings of everything that new mother would feel when news of carrying a new life brushed against their heart. There was fear, doubt, worry...but also joy and anew hope that she had a chance for redemption to erase her past sins with a new purpose. She tried to cram everything into the bubble of contentment all at once. "I'm having Captain America's baby..."_

"Our baby," Increasing hope consumed her, Natasha spoke in a gentle tone against his ear, and reached for his hand. She guided his shaking fingers to over her thinned black sweater. "Feel our baby's strength, Steve." she said with a heaving breath, and then placed her hand on his jaw, turning his head towards her face.

Distress ran livid across his, placid slacked features, but she wouldn't give up. Natasha pulled him closer to her body. He thrashed miserably, bones grinding against muscle as he fought to push himself out of the delirium—out of the icy abyss. He was drifting further away from her, body convulsed and fingers twined into the material of her sweater. He was trembling with anguish and trepidation.

"I've got to put her in the water!" He yelled incoherently, words echoed against the glass walls of the stall. A cold blew through him, chilling his bones, rustling its way into his blood and slowly entering his heart. "Peggy..."

"Steve..." Natasha grabbed his hand and squeezed it. His pulse was spiking against her clutch. She'd had live through fear-hardened herself from attachment and human connection. Steve was her life. She wouldn't let him become stolen from her. "Come on, Rogers wake up," she said, her voice broken an filled with unease. She knew that breaching his space, infiltrating the barrier of his distress would become dangerous for her and the baby. Instead, Natasha contented herself to watch his lips move and listen to the sputtering words of inward pain rip out of his vocals.

"Bucky..." His voice sounded so raw and frantic against her ears."Take my hand. Don't let go...Bucky!"

It almost seemed like he was trapped inside a nightmare. Poisoned by regret and so much agony of losing everything in those seconds when the plane sunk into the arctic waters. Fury had warned her that Steve would endure relapse of memory if something triggered his thoughts to deflate. The Winter Soldier—Bucky was that trigger of his uncontrolled stresses. No soldier, no matter how strong or weak could ever escape that torment of staring at a degraded form of a man restricted to never feel or fight for his stolen humanity.

Steve had lost Barnes to HYDRA—he blamed himself for allowing the hands of evil to transform Bucky into a flesh and chrome weapon.

Natasha had to pull him out of that collapsing pit.

Feeling a dull throb in her stomach, the sensation of new life —redemption, Natasha stroked her lips over his chilled and drenched skin, holding a shaky kiss there for a few moments as she implored with heat warming over his frigid lips. She felt him was coming back to her. Soft and desperate. "Feel me..." she urged, breathlessly.

Steve flashed his eyes open. Awareness crawled back into him The ice melted. Natasha's arms wrapped around him.

"Natasha..." He moaned sluggishly and quiet. After several pants of breath, he managed to say. "It was all so real. The plane crash and the ice." He blinked the watery coating out of his unfocused blue eyes, and gulped down, his face creased with sickening discomfort. The hollow space in his chest throbbed."When I was being pulled under..." Another gulp of air. "I heard your voice, Nat."

She reached for his hand, fingers weaved together and closed into a tight, unbreakable clasp of trust. Then, she placed his hand over her belly, and looked down for a moment. Just a tiny moment. "It wasn't just me calling out for you, Steve."

Steve narrowed his dampened eyes, "I know," he choked out and dipped his hand down. He closed his eyes, and pressed his shaky lips onto her stomach. "I know."

"How do you feel now, Rogers?" she asked gently, threading her hands over his drenched ruffled blonde hair.

There was no more ice encasing over his bones. Just thermal heat coming from...Her body.

"You're warm," he said, mustering up the strength to smile through his anguish. Tracks of water ran down his face. He wrapped her into his embracing arms, and then clutched her like a shield against the hails of torment. He was recovering...His inner battles were growing intense and pain not ceased to seep into his bones. It was one thing the serum couldn't take away...Maybe she could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Unbroken**

**{Chapter 3}**

* * *

_The sound of restless waves grew intense. Natasha was standing rigidly on the edge of a shoreline. __Iron- straight red locks framed over her pale features. She felt hollow. Behind her an American flag mounted on a pile of stone billowed against the restless wind. The colors faded with age. She listened to the splashing noise coming from her left. Daring a chance, she opened her green eyes and stared, intently at a small child splashing and giggling in the shallow water._

_A little girl. Beautiful and graceful. Her blonde curls bounced over her shoulders and a smile took over her delicate features. She looked around four years of age, full of life and innocent. Natasha walked closer to the water, her bare feet became compromised by the rolling tide. She blinked out fever out of her eyes, and just stared at the child. Capturing all the detail. Crystal blue eyes that shone like steel against the line. The gaze of Captain America. It became clear to her, that the girl was in fact her daughter._

_"Brooklyn," Steve called out, firm and loving. His blue eyes looking directly at his daughter. The softness of his voice stretched. His hand extended out as the playful and gentle little girl splashed water at him. He shook his head, only for moment, and then a hollow chuckle broke from his lips. Natasha spared him a glance before returning her eyes on the blue waters. The atmosphere was peaceful and assuring. Sail boats were in the distance, and a lighthouse mounted on jagged cliff overlooking the rocky white sands. Then, she turned her indent focus back onto him._

_The super-soldier was observant, but __ more content. His wet, blonde hair had fallen into sloppy tendrils over his brow. His muscles gleamed like bronze in the caress of the light spreading over the gray cloud cover building on the horizon.. His face was full of chiseled definition. Stoneware jeans where speckled with water drops. His thick and hard chest covered with a light gray Avengers' shirt that didn't help to conceal much of his muscles in that regard. He looked happy.__"Come on, beautiful. We're late to see Aunt Peggy."_

_Fire burned inside Natasha's heart. Devouring every piece of her. "Daddy," her daughter giggled out Steve's name. She looked at the little girl sloshing her feet into the waves, smiling brightly with her blue eyes looking directly at Steve. Her gaze with mischievous. "Daddy, come in the water..Splash. Splash." She put her hands impatiently on her little hips. "I'm waiting..."_

_Steve drew out a frustration breath, and reluctantly stepped into the water. His jeans were getting drenched. "Brooklyn," He countered firmly, before he could get the last word, their daughter collided into his muscled legs, she wrapped her arms over his waist, looking up at him. "That's my best girl..." He said, his laugh lines crinkled as he crouched down to her level. He turned his ice blue eyes at Natasha, he smiled broadly. "Our daughter is as stubborn as you, Nat."_

_There were a few quite moments that followed, Natasha nodded in return. "She's beautiful, Rogers." Her voice was shuttering, and her skeptical green eyes settled back on her daughter. She glanced back at him. Her lips straining to hold a snarky grin. It didn't seem real to her. Tension in her body uncoiled when she stared into the eyes of the little child in front of her. A precious life that deserved freedom from the horrific past of her mother. The scars of her surgeries began seared her insides, blood heated and tears threatened to betray her masked emotions. Taking a step back, she felt the ground tremble under her feet._

_Natasha knew it was dream. She blinked at him. Her eyes watered. "She is ours?" she said before she could halt her words. It was a stab in the heart, feeling uncertain and absent with the truth before her. Moving closer to the water with methodical steps, and folded her arms protectively. "Her name is Brooklyn?"_

_The questioned dragged across Steve's gaze and he slowly nodded, his arm shielding over their daughter. "It didn't take us long to chose her name. After we saw her for the time on the screen...__You said it first." he said softly. "She is everything we are, Natasha. Your beauty and my strength." He clasped his lips into a thinned line, and held Brooklyn within the interlock of his arms. "She is ours..."_

_Brooklyn nuzzled her face into his chest, "I love my, Daddy." she whispered, and closed her eyes. Steve stroked his hand through her springy curls._

_"I love you," He pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and one swipe of his left hand revealed a gleaming piece of platinum. A wedding ring._

_Natasha felt herself standing back on solid ground, and looked down at her own hand, and saw a diamond ring. She curved her lips into a watery smile, and felt her heart dancing in her chest. "Steve..." She broke out in a sob that seemed to clog up her throat. "You're my partner?"_

* * *

Natasha didn't wake up at first. She groaned and writhed the images of the dream away. The entanglement of covers rustled against her lithe frame. She was aware of the muted sunlight laving over her features. Quiet. Peaceful. A brush of warmth caressed over her skin, a hand splay across the planes of her stomach, and fingers moved with circular motion.

She swallowed and mashed her face into the pillow. Why did she dream? She always had nightmares. Not dreams. It was hard for her mind to get a grasp on the security enfolded around her. The taste of copper and iron still lingered in her throat. It would always rent inside her. There was no escape from that dark world of red. She breathed, and regathered her thoughts, fighting against the exhaustion.

"Steve," she whispered, feeling his muscled body pressed against her. A solid wall of soothing heat to fight against the aches in her womb. "What time..."

Her words failed as softness of his lips melted over the tender spots between her jaw and neck. Small ripples moved with the sensation of wet heat slipping and sliding down her jugular. She extended her arms over the pillowcase, feeling the smoothness of his broad jaw, the strength of his modern Adonis physique clutched underneath her grip. She shivered, heart thumping away the recurring dull ache in her chest.

Natasha tensed and felt her back arching against the mattress. Her scarlet ringlets fanned across the sheets and entanglement of blankets. She clenched her jaw and listened to the pace of breath ghosting from her lips.

"Nat," Steve whispered and fingers threaded her mussed red hair. "Is everything alright?" he prodded and his voice arrived croaky and laced with concern. A lazy smile hung from his lips. He looked at her. Concern became written across his face. He lifted his hand from under the pillow and his fingers roamed up her arm. "I heard you talking in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream or something?"

"I..." She swallowed, trying to act distant. "I wasn't dreaming. I never dream."

Steve smiled knowingly. "You can't lie to me, Natasha." he tone dipped into something gentle and imploring."Tell me about the dream."

Instantly, she fluttered her eyes open, squinting as light invaded her vision. An intense cooling penetrated deep within her. At first she felt that she devolved. She'd been on the brink of having a feverish meltdown of panic, but when his lips caressed over her shoulder, everything had froze. She just stared at him, taking in all the details of her baby's father. Dawn gleamed over his smooth features, his hair adorably ruffled and spiked, his eyes, ice and molten like blue fire emerging from the grayness of a raging storm. Their eyes met. His gaze changeless and imposing. It unnerved her. "I guess sometimes I do talk into sleep," she reluctantly, admitted, heaving out a dry sigh. The pressure in her womb was constricting. "Did you hear anything?" her voice still a tad raspy from sleep.

He rested his hand over the flat planes of her stomach, and then his stern gaze searched inside her eyes., his eyebrows knitted into a creased. "You did mentioned something about... Brooklyn?"

Feeling the empowering heat of his hard and carved muscles radiate through her body, Natasha grinned to herself. When the question intermixed with the waves of surreal peace between them, and she lifted her head off the pillow, and met his pursed lips with a fierce kiss. Her mouth sealed and melted into an embrace of compromising hunger over his lips. She kissed him hard, feverishly, desperate and refreshing. Her monochrome world faded into bright colors and she was writhing underneath as muffled noises erupted from their bodies. Tongues sloshed with rhythmic paces of breath and the slips and slides of their wet and slightly bruised lips created a jolt of electrically inside her core. She clenched her hands into fists, breathing heavy as her lips devoured his jawline line, she whispered the name of their growing child, her breath steady against his drenched skin while feeling the sheer pulse of contentment rip through her.

_Brooklyn Rogers._


	4. Chapter 4

**Unbroken**

**{Chapter 4}**

* * *

The glow of the outside light reflected into the myriad of rain drops sloping down the window. She was transfixed by the vibrant amber reflecting in her passive grayish teal eyes. At the moment, nothing seemed to disrupt her intent gaze against the violent sheets of rain. It was midnight. Her hour to prowl through the darkness. She had wanted get away from the farm.

It made her feel like a damn hostage. She relished being alone in the darkness with freedom at her grasp. Freedom to enjoy the moments of still having the capably to fight with her agile methods of combat—the graceful movements of the Black Widow—without bringing measures of distress to her and Steve's baby's growth development. Still, it haunted her to carry an unborn child inside her womb.

She had been living on the edge ever since she found out the results of the pregnancy test. She was carrying Steve Roger's baby. It was positive. She was entering her seventh week of her first trimester and was feeling like she was riding on an emotional roller coaster that made her feel alternately elated, anxious and overwhelmed.

I'm having a baby.

It was still hard for her to fathom that inside her womb, a tiny life was growing. She never used to believe in miracles, only consequences. But feeling the pressure of her belly stretch and the heavy burden of motherhood, it made her feel human. She was no longer a defective weapon from Department X. She was real. Her reflection no longer showed a ghost without an existence, but flesh and blood. She loved feeling the twisting and writhing tension in her stomach; feeling her and Steve's baby's development and being filled with curiously on if she was having a boy or a girl...Brooklyn. Nevertheless, Natasha was feeling alive and warm without the coldness of the world she ran away from creeping back to her.

* * *

(Flashback)

_The storm front had pulled in from the East, causing a disturbance of chaos in the traffic, Natasha woke up screaming. Her whole body was coated in a feverish sweat as the murky tears departed from her eyes, leaving a taunting spectrum of red. She took a moment to draw out a choking breath, and her hand slid over the dark top restricting against her clammy skin. She felt the tension build against her muscles. Her baby was safe. She felt sick. The stages of her pregnancy had finally caught up with the waves of contentment. Nausea started to overtake her. She had to counterbalance the harsh symptoms, finding a way to__ ease the tension and stress as the cold sweat and intrusion of fever bashed against her. Quickly, she paced to the bathroom, crashed to her knees and grasped the cold surface of the toilet seat with her shaky palms. Everything felt unsettled, almost like someone was squeezing her stomach with a vice, bruising the inner lining as the sour taste of bile crept up her straining throat._

_Breathe, Natasha, breathe. She tried not to focus on the sickening feeling of sloshing vomit as her muscles quivered and tears seared her pale skin. "I don't want this..." She cried pathetically, parting her lips and fighting against nausea while her stomach clenched and she allowed everything to pour out of of her in an instant of release. Her skull pounded with violent flashes of red and her vision blurred for just a few seconds. After reining herself back up, and flushing down whatever had come out of her, she dared not to look. Natasha clung onto her composure; she used the doorknob for support, and then straightened her form against the sink. Turning the handle cold relief splashed over her skin. Ridding the lingering taste of acid with mouthwash, she took deep, wavering breaths and stared down at her stomach, encompassing her hand over the lightly swollen area._

_When Natasha forced herself out of the bathroom, she wobbled slightly and listened to her instincts. Apple juice. Clint gave her instructions to drink apple juice to help ease the symptoms. He was the first one that knew she was pregnant. She was still unsure it had been a good thing that she told him, or if it was a mistake._

_Nevertheless, having a baby was her second chance. For a long time she had been dragged back into the dark informal world without having much time to enjoy the small details of life. Freedom is what she wanted. Freedom from the recurrence of nightmares, from the weight of the shackles she forged and the tangling weaves of the Red Room._

_Natasha tried convincing herself that adaption was now her method of survival. SHIELD no longer existed; Fury was in Europe tracking down Doctor Steven Strange, and the Avengers were fractured pieces of a distant family. Yes, they still had missions together, however, the trust wasn't there anymore. Everyone was going their separate ways—Thor was in London under the new identity of a doctor, Bruce Banner was now in Africa uncovering a new element, and Tony had secluded himself in Avenger's Tower, creating a new project involving advanced AI technology with the purpose for insuring world peace without losing more lives: Ultron._

_She entered the kitchen with caution. She wasn't entirely sure that it was safe. Perimeter breach. They were the first words that automatically surged through her mind. For a moment, she felt a familiar presence linger in the darkness enveloping around her. It faded the moment she felt the coldness of metal snaked around her trim waist._

_Exhaling out a shaky breath, Natasha kept her poise calm, and settled her teal eyes intently on the knife, inhaling the empowering scent of chrome and sweat. As she caught the familiar smell metallic of her intruder, Natasha felt her heart beating rancidity in her chest. Everything was turning into a shade of red. The vibrant color of the Soviet flag. She listened to the eerie sound of metal contorting as fingers dragged over her scar. She felt the phantoms of pain devouring her veins._

_The Red Room had found her again._

_It was him...The Winter Soldier._

_Her wrists were seized by strong hands—one more rigid than the other—that restrained her intended onslaught. Lightning flashed in from the outside, illuminating the shiny sight of metal wrapped around her hand. The noise of thunder covered the sound of a rifle clattering to the floor. Droplets of water touched her shoulder as they dripped from drenched long hair. Natasha found herself pinned against the fridge. "You can't run from me, Natalia." The haunting raspy voice of the ghost...The Winter Soldier made her insides churn. She instantly reacted, enclosing her arm over her belly. She had to protect her baby. "You took the shot and missed..." She felt his fingers squeeze against her tender flesh with bruising pressure. The bite of his menacing voice made her bones jolt. "Why?"_

_Lightning flashed again, illuminating his wet face hauntingly._

_Natasha breathed deeply, clenching her teeth. "I know who you are..." She had to reach him before he harmed her baby. She was dazed in shock, she knew he was going to kill her. It was his directive. She knew he was unfocused, the way his voice slurred and how sluggish his movements were as he infiltrated her apartment._

_She was the Black Widow. She was reborn in the same dark and inhumane world as him. "I don't want to fight you..." Her eyes snapped over the counter, focusing on the knife block, but the coldness of his weapon of signature a pistol hovered over her shoulder blades. All it would take is a second for him to pull the trigger, and Steve would find her laying on the floor choking on her blood, panting for him to stay away. She didn't want to look into the ghostly blue eyes of her past. She wanted to stare into her future...Into the trusting eyes of the man she surrendered her heart and life to._

_Natasha didn't want to look at him. The Winter Solider wasn't the man she once loved. His face was clandestine and emotionless, without tolerance. She knew him, though, and there was no doubt that the man pinning her down was Barnes. She took in no comfort from him imposing presence. Her breaths evened, and she dared herself to glance up into his clement pale gray eyes hidden under steams of messy hair. Her body stilled and her lips parted. "You know this isn't right...You deviated from the mission."_

_The Winter Soldier snapped his eyes down to his metal hand, a deathly and gelid wrath bearing down at Zola's handy work. She struck him with her elbow across his throat, struggling against his weight against her, summoning the measures of her control and resistance. She didn't want to fight him...The baby's life was at great risk if they entered brutal combat. She kicked him in the chest, and scrambled to the counter, his metal arm rotated and grabbed her arm, yanking her violently back to him._

_She twisted around and grabbed the nearest blade out of the wooden slit. Not having a chance to think of the consequences of her actions, Natasha curled her fingers over the knife's handle, pull it free then jammed the jagged steel into his left arm. Metal screeched as his left arm thrust viciously up and grabbed her throat. Feeling oxygen draining from her lungs, Natasha writhed against his stranglehold then slashed the knife in the air reaching for his jaw. Her vision was swimming. She refused to taste defeat. "Listen to me..." She felt the horrible waves of nausea sloshing in her gut. She was going to puke on him, if he didn't release his choke hold. "Your name is James Barnes. Your best friend is Captain Steven Grant Rogers..."_

_"You're lying," He roared with an infinite threat in his baritone. He pulled her face close, causing her smooth lips to brush over his bristled jaw. He breathed hotly, his anger receded as he felt her heartbeat against his hard chest. Seconds passed before he unraveled his hand from her neck. He blanched away with an unsettled and piercing look in his intense blue eyes as he thought to himself. A wave of dread rushed over him and his grimacing lips slacked and morphed into a scowl. "Why did this Captain Steven Rogers call me a different name?" he panted, unwavering in his raspy demands. "Why?"_

_"That's who are you..." Natasha spat, trying to wear her mask of placid control as he lurched back in bewilderment. She had denied the false truths about him, even though he was a programmed and lethal killing machine, he still felt everything. He seemed to have broken from the programming wired in his mind, but still there was the cold delight of inflicting pain...He was immune to the sadistic validations forced out by his hands. She couldn't allow his suffering to compromise her emotions._

_She'd fought against the urges to kill through resistance and using her humanity as an anchor to pull out of the void before she drowned into it. James Barnes was considered dead man; a name logged in the ghost files. He was forced and dragged into submission. She watched him become a vacant automaton on strings that destroyed lives. Just feeling the coldness of the harboring dread made her heart palpitate. Natasha had to find a way to bring him back. She couldn't allow him to fade, not when Steve needed him...Bucky, as his shadow again._

_He looked at her. She glared back at him, her infuriated green eyes burning, calculating and hardened. He drew in a breath then hissed. His metal fist clenched as he felt a stabbing pain, his vision blurred, and then images of a blonde haired man with battered features invaded his scattered thoughts as everything fell back to him in a twisted web._

_Until the end of the line..._

_"The man drowned..." He paused between sucking and racking breaths that conformed against his ribs. "I remember saving him in the water...I pulled him out...He didn't fight back… and I didn't pull the trigger. I walked away and left him to bleed."_

_"You saved him?" Natasha had to dig deeper, she had assumed it was him who saved Steve from drowning as SHIELD crumpled into pieces above them. Maybe there was a chance for Barnes to have freedom. "You were the one who pulled Steve out the river, it was you?"_

_"I failed my mission." he said, his blue eyes tearing up._

_"Failed? You didn't fail. You broke the programming." Natasha snapped, staring into his confused deaden eyes. "You were given orders by Pierce to kill a level six agent Steve Rogers, but some part of you had the compliance to fight against it." It was right there, that she knew Bucky still existed beyond the icy surface of HYDRA's organic weapon. "You saved your best friend."_

_He fastened his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down, but all he saw was blood staining over a white star. "I...didn't want him to die." he admitted in a timid voice. "I wanted to save him..."_

_Natasha sighed. "Steve," she said, trying to ease him down. "The man you saved in the river, his name is Steve Rogers."_

_"No..." The Winter Soldier released a labored violent breath, and remained in a rooted stance. His face twisted with pain, and his stomach churned. "This man was a level six agent. I was ordered to kill him. He was my mission...MISSION!" He screeched, drawing out his gun, aiming at her chest as he intended to dispatch her._

_Natasha caught the reflection of his menacing scowl with her blade. "He is your friend." She delivered an equal tone with her voice. "Steve has been searching for Bucky Barnes...Not the Winter Soldier. I don't know if he's doing the right thing or if it's stupid." She huffed out in a breath, then leveled her eyes back to his gun._

_The bullet would plunge into her heart and explode. He caught sight of her hand cradling around her stomach. Resistance became anew inside him, and he lowered the gun to his thigh. He allowed his hardened eyes to drift over the darkened kitchen. "This isn't some damn trick or deception, Natalia. You're telling the truth?" He stared at Natasha with confusion etched over his obscured features. His eyes welled with ridden tears of exhaustion. His lips parted as he struggled to spit up a few words, seething ruefully, disturbed and glaring down at her. "The man you say that knows me..." He faulted a step back, his eyes hardened and dark with contempt malice. "Where is he?"_

_"I'm sorry, but I'm very good at keeping secrets, James Barnes." She winced, her nonchalant words became cold against her throat while giving him a lethal look with her green daggers. She folded her arms defensively over her belly, keeping her growing child secured from the looming shadow of the Soldier. "Why did you come here?" she questioned dryly, glancing around and feeling the storm hasten in her chest. She knew he was resisting the programming. "Were you looking for answers?"_

_Keeping her guard up, Natasha watched the Soldier with an intent gaze. He opened the cupboard and grabbed a package of crackers. It was obvious that he was close to starving. He swiftly marched to the sink, using his metal hand to turn the cold water tap and parted his jaw as he allowed the rushing water to flood down his parched throat. Natasha knitted her eyebrows as he turned the water off and swiveled around on his combat boots. He met her glowering eyes in the darkness. Natasha raked her eyes over his tall, imposing frame; staring at his slick, rich chestnut hair—brushed off his broad forehead._

_The Winter Soldier was magnificent in the dim light; his muscular frame clad in carbon black leather, his steady, deep azure-gray eyes which gleamed with murderous intent, and steel-ashen skin with hints of bruising. His full shaped lips —his greatest weapon to use against her—curved at the edges and formed a youthful line. A faint stubble swathed over his strong jaw line. "I'm looking for my file." He uttered brokenly, his eyes never left her as he sloshed back another gulp of water. "I know it exists because I remember Zola writing notes while I was strapped down..."_

_She didn't answer. His teeth clenched as her gaze tore away from him. Her hand still clutched the knife, and her stance was unpredictable as she pretended he wasn't there. He haunted her in the weaves of her dreams, mirrors and the seasons of winter. The scar begun to burn under her top as his eyes settled on her slightly rounded stomach. She tried to stalk away, or rather create a distraction. He was quick with reflex, and caught her before her foot reached the doorway. He squeezed her wrist, and held her close to his torso. Excess water dripped from his messy hair and down her cheeks. It dripped from his unshaven chin and spattered to the floor. He placed his hand over her womb, trying to control the rage coiling in his stomach._

_"Natalia," he growled, abrasive and soft. "You need to stop running. You need to..."_

_"What?" she returned in a heated breath, prying his hand off her stomach. "I need to go back with you? You shot me... Remember?" She reminded him coldly, lifting her top, and allowing him to see the scar his bullet created when he first fired at her in Odessa, then again years later in Washington. "I should have put a bullet in your head back on the overpass when I had the chance."_

_Natasha gritted as the knife pointed at his chest, vehemence coursing in her veins. She clenched her hand into a fist, remorse became etched on her ivory features. A painful stillness left her side, color drained from her lips as she inhaled the vague scent of blood wafting from his wounded limp. It made her stomach churn. She didn't need to endure another night of spewing out her guts. Fighting against her urges, agony pinched her face and she allowed the knife to drop onto the floor. "That's not what Steve wants...He wants his best friend back."_

_His luminous eyes snapped down at the knife. A flutter of panic overwhelmed him. Natalia. Crimson Rain. Violent images of dead HYDRA operatives, dangling in wires above rafters, flooded through his scattered thoughts. He cracked his raw knuckles into a clenched fist. "Crimson Rain..." Natasha's eyes widened as she stared into the tendrils of their horrific past through his eyes. Crimson Rain in the KBG terms was hanging a loved one upside down; the resisting operative was strapped to a pole and then one round was fired into the person's skull as blood fall down on them…. Like rain. It was an effective fear tactic they used to make their agents submit. Natasha averted her eyes away from his stare, allowing her tears to brand once again with pain and ice. "We did terrible things didn't we, Natalia?"_

_Rage flooded her veins. Pain sliced through her heart. "The past stays where it belongs...I've traded my sins for a chance of freedom."_

_The Winter Soldier nodded wordlessly and flicked his eyes down. "Freedom?" he questioned faintly._

_"Look, I don't know how you managed to track me down, James." She kept her eyes leveled with his blue ones. "But you have to leave. If you find everything that you once were before they took you, you will never have a chance to live. You can't risk it...Steve can help bring you back, for now you have to stay in the dark until he is ready to face the past."_

_He took an encroaching step towards her, his eyes darkened with grief and his metal fingers moved idly down her hip, tracing the curved line. His lips were inches from her tightened jaw, brushing a caress of delicate heat. "Take good care of him, Natalia." he whispered in a grating voice. He sounded different. Almost like James Barnes, except his voice still carried the darkness. "They're coming for us...He is the only one who can save us." A flash of lightning. A hard kiss on the cheek. "Don't follow me... " he warned, biting around the gravelly thickness in his voice. He sounded exhausted. "I'll find both of you when the war comes." And then he was gone._

* * *

Natasha darted her teary eyes open, her lips released a silent cry. Her heart thudded against her rib cage as a dull ache scourged through her stiff bones. She placed her hand on her heaving chest and let out rapid pants of breath as she swallowed. She swiped the dots of sweat off her brow with the back of her hand and settled her back against the wall. It was only a memory. A vivid memory that lingered in her mind ever since that hour when she still had a soul to keep her on solid ground. She bashed her thick lashes together as the haunting images of the Winter Soldier vanished into the fog of her mind. She released deep and shallow breaths until she couldn't remember the terrifying moments that skimmed through the cluster of her disjointed memories. Until the shards of ice melted into the fabrics of her graying soul.

After surpassing another wave of nausea, by sipping a glass of apple juice, Natasha sat on the edge of the mattress, ringing out excess water absorbed in her copper ringlets. He seemed distant from her, drifting away from the truth that inside her expanding womb was his child. She refused to allow him to carry this burden alone. She regarded her eyes to him, the noble-hearted, virtuous and defiant soldier swathed under a heap of blankets.

His bare and strongly defined chest gleamed in the purity of the dim lamp light and she couldn't stop herself from looking at his still form with a softened gaze. She watched him inhale and exhale faint breaths escaping from his slightly parted lips. She marveled as his full lips twitched and stray blonde hairs fell gently over his broad forehead. Light cast over his cut-stone features, making him appear younger and dangerously alluring to her senses. She gingerly crawled over his body, and her eyes settled on his handsome and lax face while she inwardly admired how gorgeous the captain truly was in the moonlight. She could see light grimace etched in his features and knew there was tension and pain coursing through his massive body, but he was too stubborn to admit it.

She pulled the blanket dangling off his legs over his chest and softly stroked her the caress of her fingers through the ruffle mass of his blonde hair. She brushed the wisps of hair off his slack forehead, and stared at the fading scar above his left eyebrow. Warm tears started to build from behind her eyes, she wasn't prepared to allow her emotions to pour out. She knew that shedding tears was a weakness. She was not weak. She kept her emotions concealed behind stone walls, and wore many masks of an actress and seducer to hide her broken heart; dread and slivers of contentment.

It felt like her heart collapsed in her chest as the reminder of her betrayal had been etched onto his skin; it was a grave mistake all because she disobeyed his orders and followed her own methods which distracted him from the main objective of save hostages from armed smugglers. He had been wounded after the cargo vessel exploded. He was the indestructible super-soldier, the resilient leader of the Avengers, but he was still human. He could bleed.

"I did this to you, Rogers," she whispered, resisting the urge to spill out her confession. She brought a hand up to her face and wiped the tears away as she managed to put her flow of tears to a halt. She lowered herself carefully down and pressed a kiss lightly on his jaw, just under his ear; tasting a trail of his sweat before pulling away with her eyes downcast.

She watched him breathe heavily against his pillow; the fullness of his lips curved into a weak smile as the noise of pelting rain shredded the blissful silence around them.

"Steve," she said eventually. Her hand traced over the freckles on his firm bicep. A heaviness was building in her chest. "Can you tell me what happened in the shower?" She narrowed her eyes. It was a quiet question, her low voice urging to know the answers to the sudden lapses of his tormented memory. "Why did you fade out?

Steve peeled his eyelids open against the exhaustion, his long lashes flickered as he gazed blearily over the shadows of the bed. He stared at her red hair draped over bare shoulders, and her green eyes holding a tranquil stillness.

The groggy captain gently stirred and fully opened his eyes. He felt her watching him. His muscles rippled. "Nat," he mumbled out in a malcontent raspy breath. He settled his luminous blue eyes on her, trying not to expose his emotions. He was weakening and sticky while a clouded feeling of distress persisted behind his eyes. He was entering a dark place, the toll of guilt he allowed to pile on his shoulders was weighing him down. Every time he thought about Bucky, all he saw in his weaving nightmares was the Winter Soldier's cybernetic arm with the embossed red star smeared with blood. Bucky's blood. The dark phantom took everything from him. He no longer had dreams—he was cold and ruthless. A caged monster ordered to murder innocent people without a sense of humanity preventing him from making the kill. Steve was putting all his focus into finding his friend that he secluded himself from Natasha—from his unborn baby.

Steve leaned on his elbows and straightened his back against the headboard. His mind addled against the availing pain. He had to be honest with her. He blinked out the tears threatening to prick in his eyes. He clenched his fists, gripping the sheets. "My mind as been rather preoccupied, Natasha," he said with a hint of omission in his voice, he was trying to bring her at ease. She gave him a hard look, hardly convinced. "I can't tolerate the pain anymore," he admitted downheartedly, tension was collecting in his muscles. His chiseled features heated. Steve grimaced as his stomach churned with worming sensations of dread, just eating away at him. "Bucky is out there and I can't find the courage to face him again...My best friend..." he ranted with discontent.

She sighed, a troubling tone rose in her voice. "This is the reason why you have been out of the focus, Steve?" she asked, staring at his lips stifling into a firm grimace. "You'll find him again." She did her best to give some form of reassurance. "I know you too well..." She allowed a sweet smile to blossom over her pale face, despite the recurring tension growing in her womb. "I know there's one thing about you that will never change," she managed to swallow against a tight throat, and caressing a soothing touch over his knuckles. She needed to convince him that hope still existed. She needed to give him time to journey back into his past. She wanted him to stay close, not leave her and their baby. He was her shield. "Captain America never gives up."

Steve looked deeply at her, his blue eyes desolate. "It's my fault...I'm the reason why Bucky has become this fist of HYDRA." He gritted, jaw clenching. "How many times have I looked away? How many more people will have to pay for my mistakes before I realize that my failures are the reasons why we're not saving the world from this recurring nightmare? We're just tearing it apart..." Steve seethed out, his voice teeming with aggression, his intense blue eyes trained on his left hand as he held it up to the lamp. "I should have spent those days searching for him instead of allowing myself to believe that he died...I overlooked Bucky's medical records that might have given me the truth about Zola injecting him with a recreation of the serum. That's how he survived the fall... After his body crashed into the ice, his arm likely broke during the impact."

"Steve..." Natasha patronizingly soothed, tearing her eyes away from him and for a moment, she splayed her hand gently over her swollen belly. She had to seize her moment of escape. She couldn't tell him the truth that she had an encounter with James Barnes...The Winter Soldier a few weeks before. It was difficult for her to resist his pain. She'd never seen him so distraught, so fundamentally broken, that he didn't even take notice on how much her belly had grown in size. He was eluding himself from her, not allowing her to calm the storms of his distress. "You can't keep blaming yourself for what happened to Barnes." She whispered with sorrowful eyes, burdened by her memories of the trauma and violence of her past. "Sometimes things happen to good people. I don't know how you feel, but just let me listen..." She forced a smile even through it felt like an ice pick jabbed in her chest. She gave him a confident smirk, hoping in vain that he wouldn't detect her inward distress. "I'm good at that."

"Natasha," His voice sounded with a wheeze of anguish. "I rather we not talk about the past." His glassy eyes brightened, despite his fractured countenance. His large hand rested back on her belly and he dropped his voice into low sincerity. "We need to talk about our future, Nat."

She was still at first, her eyes searching beyond his stare. Her lips parted ever so slightly as a hesitant breath replaced a word. "When I had that dream about our baby I finally decided on a name for her." She roved her gaze away from him for moment, contemplating on what she wanted to say to him. It was hard to reveal something that seemed doubtful. "I guess you need to know the name in case you have something else in mind for our child."

A faint smile crossed over her lips, and the dimples of her chin became visible. She was staring back at him; no masks or duel identities. Just her. "I thought I would have it all figured out by now. I'm usually multi-tasker, but you see I'm afraid about the future. My past will always find a way to destroy me." Her eyes drooped a little, and she intently watched his fingers trace over the tender muscle of her stomach. "I can't risk losing this baby, not when I finally have a reason to feel again."

Steve nodded, his steady blue eyes never broke away from hers. "I'm afraid for our child as well, Nat." As she listened to the honest edge in his voice, she lightly tilted her head and curved her lips onto a smirk of relief. He gave her a fast wink. "We are in this together, remember, and I'm sorry for everything I've been putting you through. I'm not the partner you need when it comes to protecting our baby." His voice suddenly became grated and husky. "I should be more concerned about your pregnancy than searching for my best friend's ghost. He lives in my past and you are the present that is carrying my future."

"Steve," Natasha felt her heart melt in her chest. Tension pulled in her muscles. Her expression grew stony, stiff and unreadable. He knew that semblance. She wore it to shroud over her ivory face when distress had taken hold of her to mask her emotions from him. Her pain wasn't something she liked to express, but he saw the torment in her eyes as she leveled an inscrutable glower at him. "You need to stop worrying about me," she gritted, hoping her words would distract him enough. She rubbed her palms over the hard muscle of his shoulders. "You're the one that needs rest."

He grunted, shaking his head with his eyes sealed shut. "I've rested for seventy years, Natasha..." A wave of regret washed over him. He clenched his jaw, and made some effort to look at her with his deep sky-blue eyes. "I want to have a chance to live this stage in our lives with you. No more Captain America or war games with whatever is left of HYDRA. I just want you and our child to be my focus. My mission." He whispered firmly to her, his voice filled with promise and a hint of excitement.

Natasha had a vibrant glow on her skin. She was carrying his child. His legacy. Whatever he was feeling deduced into a content ripple in his chest, and he almost cursed himself for not staring beyond the snowy haze that was left by the Winter Soldier—Bucky. She was beautiful. Perfection of feminine symmetry. His breath hitched out his lungs and his gaze shifted to the sketchbook on the dresser. He wanted to capture this moment. Forever.

"You're beautiful, Nat." He raveled up her top, and stared down in disdain at the marred skin circled around the whiteness of a scar. Her belly was a little swollen, not enough for her to reveal the growth of their child. He slid his thumb over the roughness collected on her firm muscle. His hand didn't leave that spot. "I promise that I will never allow you to feel the pain of a bullet again. You have a soldier's word that you will be safe no matter what we face tomorrow."

With her heart unlocked, and feeling pieces of her memories fade into the heated embrace of his solid arms enclosed over her, Natasha lifted her head up and leveled her dimming green eyes with his blue eyes. "Brooklyn," she murmured in a smoky voice, burying her face into the wall of muscle that was his chest, feeling his strong arm stretch over the jutting bone of her hip.

"Brooklyn?"

She didn't move, and just allowed him to take the lead. He gently eased her down back into the mattress, pressing his body into her back; spooning her against the planes of his chest as he wrapped his arm over her wrist, and the other under the mass of her fanned out hair. They were fitting into aligning of muscle and skin, resting on their right sides with their hearts pumping at a steady beat.

Natasha closed her eyes as she felt the softness of his lips envelope heat on her shoulder. "Brooklyn is the name of our baby in my dream." She couldn't stop smirking as his mouth trailed across her shoulders.. It was the assurance that she needed that promised her that everything was going to be fine. All because she placed her trust and love into him. "I know it sounds corny..."

Steve encompassed his rough hands over her belly. He didn't give her a chance to finish. "Not at all, Natasha." He pulled her closer and brush the soothing heat of his damp lips over the curve of her jaw. His fingers slid through the loose waves of her messy and unkempt copper hair with delicate strokes like an artist using a brush to capture more details. "Brooklyn gave me strength long before I was Captain America, and if we have a daughter then there is no other name I want to call her. Brooklyn Rogers."

Natasha angled herself, flipping her lithe form over and looked tenderly into his benevolent hooded blue eyes. "Brooklyn Grace Rogers." She gave him a faint smile, sliding her index finger over the arch of his lip. "She'll have your eyes and strength." She grasped his hand, weaving their fingers together. "She'll be stubborn, but always there to make us smile." She tried to stop the tears from leaking out of her eyes. She felt the biting cold of her sins penetrate through her veins. The Winter Soldier will come back to them with his guns and knives. He will take Steve away from her, however she will fight for him and bring him back home. No matter the cost. She inhaled deeply against his chest. "And she'll be ours to love and protect."

Steve slid his fingers under her jaw, lifting her up to capture her lips, almost urgent to taste her kiss. The world blurred. He pressed the softness of his mouth against her lips lavishing the power of their kiss as her breathy moan hit the back of his throat, vibrating and hot. The pressure of his lips made her mouth quiver as the wet heat of their joining lips fused into decadent taste that melted with every feverish kiss. He closed his eyes, no longer seeing the haunting images of Bucky's deaden blue eyes hidden behind the dark mouth-plate mask.

He saw fire burning through that ice. He saw her: Natasha. She was leaning against his motorcycle dressed in a leather jacket and faded jeans, and in her arms was a little baby girl swathed in a pick blanket. She was alert with her inquisitive blue eyes staring at the world around her, while little fists held his dog tags. She was his little daughter. His life.

He smiled, brushing gentle heat over her bruised lips. "I love you," he whispered, and clasped her hand with his and moved over her belly, shielding their child.


	5. Chapter 5

**Unbroken**

**{Chapter 5 }**

* * *

Somehow, despite the unnatural feeling of being pregnant, intolerable contentment settled within. Natasha slowly peeled her eyelids open to the calmness of early morning light streaming from the window panes. The pleasant and solid colors of a dream had been interrupted by the cascades of pink tinge light devouring over the arcs of shadow. A whirling and uneasy sensation of pressure growing in her womb overwhelmed her.

...Baby...

She didn't want to move or break away from the entanglement of cotton sheets that bundled over her body. Releasing a silent and compressed set of breaths, Natasha tried to resettle her lithe frame into a more comfortable position without straining her abdominal muscles. A caress of thermal heat spread across the mashed skin against the rustling sheets.

She became aware of sloshing and increasing eruptions in her stomach, but the awful urges to expel the dissolving contents suppressed the moment she felt herself wedged against his firm iron-like muscles. Pulsing heat crawled over her feverish skin. He was still as the light laved over his chiseled face, his blonde hair was bedridden and tousled against his arm supporting his head.

He never slept with a pillow—he was used to feeling the firmness of the ground during his war days. She couldn't stop staring at him. Steve was beautiful; his skin held a healthy sheen and his soft ridged lips were formed into a pout when he breathed. He almost looked like an unreal-valiant prince charming trapped in her morbid fantasy.

Instead of pushing him off the mattress—which utterly seemed impossible giving the size of his body, it would result in causing distress to their baby. Steve would be a force like an avalanche hitting the floor and she was still establishing the fact that he—Captain America—was spooning her against the bare and hardened muscles of his torso grounded into her back. His soft breath assaulted the nape of her neck; a caress of warmth lapping over exposed skin. And it was soothing. Peaceful and filled with blissful contentment—she never wanted it to end.

Despite her intense training when it came to fighting pain and dull aches; everything she learned from the Red Room felt devolved from her. She was on the brink of adapting to normalcy; sleeping past the hours of dawn, indulging herself in decent meals and spending afternoons browsing in local book shops. Clint was her shadow while she read information about the stages of pregnancy. She spent time with little Lila in the dining room, scribbling down childish drawings and braiding each other's hair. Excitement was growing palpable.

Closing her eyes to allow the murkiness of sleep haze to dissolve out of her vision, Natasha felt soreness in her slightly swollen breasts; almost like a recurrent strain of knots had pulled the muscle and her slender body was working against an overload of unusual sensations. She felt the waves of fatigue hit her the most during the afternoon hours. She was committed to ensuring the security of her growing child's stages of development. Not to mention she had Steve as her partner—her comfort and errand boy, since for the last few weeks she had been starting to crave chocolate-mint ice cream, watermelon, roasted chicken, peanut butter and lots of pickles.

Natasha wasn't certain if she was taking advantage of him—her art of manipulation was a strong power the Black Widow used to getting what she wanted from weak and disarmed men. Steve was the defining word of indestructible—a great unyielding force of resilience, defiance and a virtuous heart. He would never abandon her.

After a few weeks, she had learned to fight against the urges of spending all the morning hours locked in the bathroom. She took deep breaths when the feverish haze coated her vision and always had a glass of apple juice at bedside.

As of today, she was on the verge of entering the first week of her second trimester; everything was becoming unbearable, intense and utterly overwhelming. The baby was growing strong each day and she wondered if those recurring dreams she had experienced were foreshadowing hints of the future...Brooklyn.

Inside the hollow vast grayness of the past, Natasha's heart throbbed each time her mind wandered into the reflections of the Winter Soldier's cold and deaden blue eyes. They held the power to pry out her emotions; twisting each fragile thread into his cold metal clutch. He'd devour her whenever his possessive lips had intertwined with hers in a melting thaw of fierce, cunning and relentless hunger.

The Winter Soldier had stolen whatever pieces of her heart had remained after the transfusions, claiming her as his own during those harsh years of training. He had taught her much from hand-to-hand combat techniques and gun kata to increase her levels of endurance, precision and flexibility. Now, in the present, James Barnes was hunting her every day. Since the attack in her apartment, she had been highly aware of his imposing presence.

The Odessa bullet wound always stung whenever he would invade her space. Natasha couldn't risk her child's life and allow Steve and him to reconcile as friends again. He was the prestige of HYDRA and a form of deception that compromised all reserves of strength and will. The Winter Soldier was a ravaging and unpredictable monster bred only for the purpose to infiltrate, harm and destroy. Even though Bucky was trying to resurface, the ruthless and calculating killer was still relevant to HYDRA—to the Motherland.

Nevertheless, Natasha couldn't let those spasmodic nightmares control her. She had to focus on her newest and most difficult mission: protecting their baby.

The world blurred out for an agonizing moment. She became absent to the warmth around her and allowed the pricking sense of ice to invade her veins when her fingers caressed over her firm belly; she was robbed from contentment. The sickening taste of bile threatened to encompass her throat and her insides were constricting as if she was recovering from a killing stroke.

It was a heavy dosage of morning sickness implemented into the forefront of her rebelling mind to charge into the hallway bathroom. Sucking in a deep and ragged breath, Natasha tried to suppress the swelter of nausea looming in her chest. Beads of sweat dotted her brow and fatigue suddenly invaded her disjointed muscles. She had to keep it together. Even as she felt the flat muscles of her back sinking into the cave of the mattress, he was there; pressed firmly against her in the folds of sheets.

Natasha began to drift back into muzzily spirals of heaviness and she felt his fingers splay over her swollen belly. The pooling heat of his pulsing blood created a sense of relief against the constant aches. Responding to the comfort, she raised her hand and enveloped her palm over his rough knuckles, feeling the steady thrum circulate against her clammy skin.

Steve, with careful movement, aligned his torso flat against her back; the silver layer of satin of her gown latched over the engraved sculpt of his abdomen. With his other hand, he created a stroking trail of fire down her arm while his nose buried into the mussed waves of scarlet, inhaling the vague and intoxicating scent of strawberry wavering from each tangled strand. Natasha veered her neck against the pillowcase, just enough to catch the coils of his warm breath over her slacken jawline. "Steve," she groaned with a muffled voice, absorbing the soothing radiance of heat invading in her skin, and yet, torrents of dissatisfaction were ebbing into her chest. She made a reluctant move, writhing against his curved arm. "Would it kill you to give me some distance?" she growled, irritable. There was no response. His lips were shadowing over her mouth. "Rogers...!"

"I'm the one who usually gives the orders," he retorted, noncommittally, holding her tighter. She was pinned against him, secured against a condense wall of overheated muscle, anchored by the assurance that he wasn't letting her go. "If you need anything...I mean anything, just ask, Nat."

"Careful, Steve," she purred with a sultry voice, intertwining her fingers into a clasp with his hand. "You may not want to reckon yourself to my desires."

He emitted out a hollow excuse of a chuckle. "I can handle anything you throw at me, Natasha," he dared and resumed his massaging; slow and gentle motions with the soothing rotation of his fingers over the swollen bulge of her expanding belly.

Natasha felt the urge to roll her eyes, "You mean when you're holding that trash can lid," she teased back with a dark wicked curve edging on her lips. "You're disarmed and your shield isn't in range...And the way I see it, Cap, is that you're completely at my mercy." she replied against his ablazed skin, her husky voice adhered a pitch of darkness that ensnared him. A mischievous glint lit up in her green eyes, imploring him to push through his limitations—to unleash the unstable and rampant fire that was rooted deep beyond the mantle of Captain America. "Besides, I should be ordering you around since I'm carrying your future bloodline, soldier boy."

"You have been giving me orders," Steve rasped softly against her bare shoulder. His gaze was dull and heavy-lidded with slumber, but a dozy smile overtook his chiseled features with ease. "Why do you think I've been sleeping in everyday?"

"Well, you did say we're in this together," she lightly jabbed her elbow into the crest of his shoulder. "Daddy."

Steve recoiled a little with disbelief. "You know, I still can't get used to that word," he whispered mildly with a detectable smirk; honesty bled through his genuine expression. A bust of confidence wracked against his heart—or maybe it was Natasha's hand. He couldn't register anything in those moments of being held captive in her enticing gaze.

Splinters of light pierced through the darkness that sat in the center of the swirling tempest of aqua marine and emerald. Those were the colors he used every time he painted a portrait of her with those water colors. Most importantly, all mixtures of tints and shades made the canvas of his new world...The world that he saw every time he stared into the endless chasms of her searching eyes. Still, he couldn't fathom that he was going to become a father. "...it will grow on me."

She winced.

"Natasha," he echoed her name, his torrid breath gusted against her skin. Before she could respond he angled his head down and sealed her lips with liquefied heat. She moaned breathlessly down his throat as he kissed her fluidly, relishing in the waves of pleasure as the muscles of his chest regressing against her slender body, fastened against him. Steve wanted her. His eyes became crystallized flares of sky blue. His soft lips roamed over her exposed skin, and possessively assaulted her jugular with bruising force, taking every pulse and seeping fervency into her veins before he slid his tongue over her lip, thirsting for the sweetness in her mouth. He kissed her long and fathomless, until breath clotted in their lungs. An explosion of bliss seared into her womb like tendrils of fire across a deserted plane of ice-consuming her whole.

When his lips made their halting departure, he breathed hotly against her jaw awash by a tinge of rose, "Why don't we go back to sleep?" He insisted, meandering his fingers over her belly with an apex of calm. "You need to rest..." He flipped her onto her back, with a surge of desire coursing in his veins. His hefty body careened against her, the thickness of his chest felt like another layer of iron on her skin.

Steve closed his eyes, all reservation fleeted as he grasped her arms, elevating them up against the pillow. His dog tags swung against her throat and the point of his nose tapped against hers as he exhaled. He then dipped his face downward, lifting her chin with a sliding nudge. Natasha was lost in another world, every color dimmed around her as his ductile lips danced with hers into a motion of ravenous assault that made her heart pump faster against her ribs. The catalyst of a storm raged against the soreness inside of her. She was lost with words, unable to conceive anything as his wet lips eclipsed against the curve of her jaw. "...last night was pretty rough on you."

Finally, after clearing out her lungs, "what brought this on, I'm usually the one who takes the lead?" she canvassed, skimming the iota of sweat off the carved planes of his chiseled chest. It was daunting to her. Steve had always been reserved, hesitant and commanding. He never seized his bottled up desires and kissed her with such passion that made her bones melt. He was evolving into a perfection of rawness, dominance and faithfulness. Steven Grant Rogers belonged to her—not to Sharon or Peggy Carter—he was her lyubov '.

He closed her lips with his index finger, his blue eyes moderate as he gazed down at her. A modest smile crept over his face as the levels of heat in his voice diminished into a whisper, "Natasha, I haven't been there for you as much as you've needed me, but I promise that I'll never leave your side. I swear to you…moy luchshiy devochka."

She raised her hand up to his angular face and imprinted her thumb over his lip. She cloaked her arms over his shoulders, holding him into an adjoining enfold while they both strayed away and entered a terrine compass of their dreams. "Likewise, moy soldat."

* * *

Harsh flecks of ice ricocheted off his solid pectorals as Steve trudged through the dead pass of muzzily, winter void. That place between dreaming and being condemned with plagued failures. When one could remember and feel every jab of pain breaking through their conscience with erosion eating at their soul.

He briskly staggered forward; gaining enough momentum to drift into the compromising divides of darkness and pure rings of endless light. He felt resigned to the world; staring intently at streaks of a blood trail crystallized in the snow banks ahead of him. Pushing every fiber, he fought against the barrage of tantalizing emotions restraining him from carrying on the mission.

Everything was fading into an immense obstruction of dark columns and there was no signal light guiding him back through the blockades of the encroaching winter storm. He was blinded by false hope, scourging through fragments of scattered regrets that seemed to slash against his unguarded heart and encased his bones until they felt leaden. His chest seared with measures of intolerable pain, and his breath hitched in his lungs as his passive azure eyes stared into the deaden space—a fathomless chasm. He was falling into a dark reflection where vivid phantoms greeted him with merciless taunts that carried an evoking dread with each gleeful laugh.

"Come and get me, Captain America..."

Another intense flash of hot red blotted his mind, and he was surrounded by towering walls tangled with vines of barbed-wire. His body fully geared in his dark blue stealth uniform. He felt the coldness of the vibranium shield seep into the rigid muscles of his heavy shoulders. He felt the weight of his burdens wearing him down. It felt like an endless road he was taking. His compass had been leading him in all directions through the grey mists, and each time he neared his objective, doubt obstructed him from pushing forward. He was drifting further without a plan or forethought; slowly being pulled into a swirling void. Darkness was everywhere. He'd ended up inside long corridors of an abandoned building.

Moving in urgent steps, Steve followed the echoes of torturous screams emitting from the shadowy depths of cells. It was a prison. There was no light, just a dim glow of transparency flickering through cracks in the crumbling stone walls. Panting out a heavy breath, he became aware of unseen eyes focusing on him in the narrow spaces, but he'd been almost too driven by his guilt to care. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, ribs restricted against slacken muscle as he paced closer to a winding staircase, climbing fervently. His passive blue eyes scanned through the shadows. Disquiet, he stalked towards the farthest corner, flipping his shield over his shoulders, and slipped his wrist through the straps. His firm gaze settled on the faded prestige of HYDRA smeared on bricks: a symbol of death and uncompromising evil.

Clenching his teeth dangerously as flaring anger flooded in his veins, Steve trudged closer to the end of the hallways and then froze at the sight of skeletal bodies encased with hardened metal. They wore uniforms of S.H.E.L.D.; tattered and smeared with blood. They were twisted illusions of death. It was a scare tactic. A trap to ensnare his heart into doubt and grief. Steve had to fight the delirious weaves of this nightmare. He'd seen these images before, someplace else, but he couldn't give into the cold rush of fear surging in his veins. He had to find a way out and take a stand against the hellish demons taunting in the darkness. He had to fix the fracturing future as an Avenger, soldier, father and lover. Escaping required strength and willpower...he couldn't feel the warmth of his blood devouring the coldness yet. He had to pass another test—Captain America could only exist if he had enough courage to gain a morsel of hope.

Surrendering himself to guilt was the only way for him to fight it. Steve crashed to his knees, fists rested at his sides and his head lowered. "Here I am..." He spoke with a heavy cadence of pain in his voice, beckoning the ghosts of his past to emerge. His face carried a semblance of suffering and anger. His blue eyes burned under the obscurity of his helmet as he glared straight at the looming figure that appeared through the monotonous fog.

"Captain America." A voice chimed with a distasteful German droll, hollow dark eyes racking over the captain from his concealment. At first, he remained still and imposing as his gaze settled on the sight of the great super-soldier. So beaten and weak from many restless nights of searching for the ghost his dear James Barnes. "Of all the faces you've seen in your nightmares...I bet I was the one you've been envisioning to meet once again, Captain."

Steve leveled his piercing icy azure orbs on the familiar sneer of a demon of his past. The Red Skull. A sadist and oculist who fed on humanity's weakness. He was responsible for Bucky's death and the many other lives of fallen Allied soldiers of the Western Front. Steve knew it was a harrowed figment of his mind, and yet he couldn't find the reserves of his strength to stand up to his tormentor. A moment passed in which he didn't move. He didn't speak. Then he felt a stabbing jolt of pain tear in his heart.

Fight it, Rogers... Fight it.

It wasn't real. Cracking his knuckles, the Captain kept his unyielding stare locked on the monster. His bruised lips fastened into a taut grimace as he held onto his defiance. Not giving up the fight.

"You think I'm afraid of you...All I see is a coward hiding behind his sick ideals." he spat, firmly. His searing eyes didn't avert from the deaden gaze glaring down at him. His jaw tightened and lips held a firm grimace. "..You want me to submit to the pain." He growled, refusing to break eye contact with the phantom sneering at his inner struggles. Steve blinked the moisture out of his eyes when he stared into the hollow and sharpen skull face of his most hated enemy. "I will never submit to you..." he protested with clear intent held in his voice. "I will find a way to save Bucky."

The Red Skull's deformed mouth twisted into a sadistic grin. The hollowness in his eyes was a testament to the absence of a human soul within his powerful vessel. He wore his black leather uniform with the red emblem of HYDRA on the shoulders. His gloved fingers coiled into a fist with a disgusted scowl plastered over the red ivory of his skeletal and demented face.

"Ah yes, your dear Bucky," he taunted with a cryptic voice, a threatening edge rumbled in the air as he made his slow imposing approach. "Such a waste of American defiance..." He chimed extending out his gloved hand. "Barnes is no longer a man...Just a worthless excuse of a collared dog for HYDRA."

Steve's breath tightened in his chest. "You don't know anything about him, Skull," he bellowed, particles of dread shredded away into mash of his unconquerable spirit. "He is one of the bravest of men I have ever known. I promise you, if your hands ever carry his blood, no power in the world or others will protect you from me. Bucky Barnes is and always will be my brother. If you ever touch him again...I will break you and tear down every wall you have built...!"

"Just what I expected from an arrogant Brooklyn swine," the Red Skull stepped closer, lifting his chin up malignantly, "...and yet I can see a lost boy underneath that uniform. So tell me, Captain America, are you afraid to go back home and find everything desolate without the existence of your friend?"

"No, I am not afraid to go back..." Steve hissed through barred teeth as he glared darkly up at his tormentor. With quick movement as of a striking cobra, the HYDRA leader whirled behind Steve and crushed his hand restrictively around the captain's throat: nearly rupturing the jugular vein.

Malaise had settled over his entire body. Steve gagged as he writhed violently, digging his fingernails into the demon's forearm. He had to grip his defense reserves and fight against the overpowering surges of spiraling pain.

Torrents of blood rushed in his ears as his vision dimmed and his jaw clenched the moment blood encased his lips. Another hand smothered over Steve's mouth and clamped it shut before the young soldier could emit an objection against the assault. He felt the life force draining out as each releasing breath carried more pain. He was then thrown onto the floor, boots kicking and bruising his chest. He couldn't scream-everything was being devoured in darkness and blood painted the ground underneath him.

This isn't real...

"You could have saved me..." Steve jerked his head in the direction of the familiar and cracking utterance echoing through walls, bracing himself against the ghostly presence loitering behind him. Steve fought to command his stern composure from betraying him in the moment he stopped at impasse; peering into slants of muted light piercing out of the entanglement of shadow that threatened to bury him and he sunk to the ground. His lips parted against the cement and cold maroon seeped from his busted lip.

Feeling his heart throb, Steve made an effort to lift his gaze and stare intently at the impassive pale blue eyes hidden behind frays of mussed brown hair. It was Bucky. He was wearing his tactical vest and combat gear with his metal arm gleaming in the furling light. "Bucky..." he managed to say, holding a shred of hope in his strained voice. Blood trickled down his broad jaw, and he tasted the sourness of remorse rising up his throat. "Come on, Buck...It's me...Steve..."

Bucky glared down at him—distant and mechanical. His clear blue eyes became filled with a deep malice. He crouched to Steve's level, his metal fingers splayed over the super-soldier's chest, almost preparing to rip his heart out. "A life for a life, punk," he seethed monstrously against gritted teeth. His face morphed into a semblance of murderous intent. He rolled his chrome knuckles over Steve's pulse. There was no recognition. Just absence. Solid, intimidating and unabated. "The mission is not over, Cap," he spat, his voice throaty and miserable. His face was empty and eyes soulless.

"I'm not gonna to fight you, Buck." Steve declared roughly, holding unbidden defiance in his eyes. Bucky rammed his metal palm brutally into Steve's shoulder, pushing him to the ground as the cold muzzle of a pistol hovered over the captain's temple. "Don't let HYDRA control you...!" His voice contained a calm sense of urgency, but it still held firmness enough not to surrender to the corrupted mind of his friend. A tremor of disquiet spread rapid across his chest in those needy seconds. He lifted his hand up reflexively to the assassin's plated shoulder and grasped the metal with a clenching squeeze. "I'm never letting you go...Pull the trigger...Stuff me with lead, but no matter what, I will hold on you until the end of the line."

Bucky scrunched his face into a sour expression, his steely eyes instantly looked at the gun almost touching Steve's left brow. It would be too damn easy to discharge a bullet and watch the blood pour out. Confused tears brimmed in his glassy blue eyes as he searched for the truth in Steve's unbreakable gaze, flaring with trust. "Friends. We were friends..." He growled with incoherent words, trying to make sense of it all. He steeled himself aback for a painful moment, furrowing his brow, and trying to convey himself as a desperate man seeking answers that had dwelled beyond the darkness and bone-chilling ice. "I fell...You let me fall off the train." The collecting memories scrambled in his addled mind. He tore his viscous gaze away from Steve's crestfallen face. "It was you screaming out a name that seems so familiar to me."

"It's your name," Steve declared, feeling ache surfacing in his voice. He steered his gaze at the knife attached to the pocket of the other man's reinforced combat pants. Bucky's hand methodically hovered over the blade, almost daring him to provoke his intent. Gritting his teeth, Steve held his friend's haunting and demented stare, refusing to back down from the mental quell of emotional lapse. "Bucky, you can't lose the truth of who you are..."

The measures of gravity in Steve's tentative voice somehow breached his impenetrable mind. Static fogged over his thoughts and a wash of grief flooded in the iciness of his veins. Everything felt strange; this man—his target and mission—was trying to pull him out of the abyss. The Winter Soldier was programmed and unmade so that he would never grasp the aspects of human emotions; desensitized with reoccurring mind swipes and transfused with mind altering serums that made him become dormant against reason and understanding on how the man under his intense glare became so invasive, and resembled a ghost of his stolen and HYDRA ensnaring past. "Who am I?" he asked, brokenly. It seemed inevitable; after all, that he was starting to piece together fragments of his disjointed memory.

'It's just a dream. Wake up, soldier...Wake up.'

Unresponsive to his friend's inquiry, Steve narrowed his dismal eyes down. He wanted an escape from this nightmare and back to reality where matters didn't feel so hopeless. "You're just a reflection of my past, Bucky," he breathed out, his despair resurfaced. He desperately convinced himself that his friend was just a ghost that he kept on pursuing to heal his own internal wounds. "You're not real." he finally admitted, an unrelenting ache followed. Mistrustfully, he stared at the evidence of bitterness written over Bucky's rugged face, and yet something flared to life as he realized that maybe hope would find him again when he would wake up and faced the true Bucky in the dark world that awaited for him. "This is a dream...Just a cold and sentimental reminder of what I've lost."

Furls of memory, that were once jaded shards of life, rejoined back inside his mind. At first his reaction to the measure of Steve's pleading words was a darkened scowl etched over his full lips. His pale blue eyes became livid and stark white was he looked at Steve with a haunted and tortured gleam welled inside his feral stare. He wanted to run. He never deserved to have a friend.

He was the Winter Soldier—a merciless assassin who was ordered to kill his targets without remorse. His hands were painted with red and his ineffective heart scarred with relentless surging guilt.

Cautiously, he blanched away from Steve, banging his metal shoulder into the rough surface of the wall. His boots crunched aimlessly over the broken glass and blood pounded in his ears.

"Then you are a fool to pursue me," he snarled, coldly. His voice inhuman and rough. His enraged eyes narrowed, and hand balled into a fist; the silver knuckles gleamed against the shafts of light, and shadows outlined his menacing face. There was a divide between the two of them; an invisible line separating him from reaching for Steve's arm. He couldn't cross it. Feeling the strong impulse to abandon Steve, he curved his lips and unleashed a ragged hiss. "If you follow me...I will destroy you, Steve," he warned, no emotion in his grating monotone. "Leave me in the shadows and stay in the light..."

Taking a moment to digest the grim warning, Steve closed his eyes and screamed out, feeling vanquished by the prickle of desperation. "I will find you, Bucky. No matter where you hide...I'm taking you home."

"Where is home, Steve?" Bucky whispered, lifting his metal hand up and brandished Steve's jaw with a fierce drag of his chrome digits. "Find yourself first before you come after me..."

* * *

Steve jarred wide awake. A sharp gasp ripped from his throat and his eyes flew open, making a meandering sweep over the aglow of muted light piercing through the crescents of darkness. The vibranium shield caught his stare, prompt up against the dresser, holding faint reflections of the moonlight streaming through the curtains arched against the window. It was his beacon in the vast sea of darkness, and yet, tears clung to his eyelashes. Sealing his eyes shut; Steve relished the wavering thermal heat merging into his bones, feeling the warmth of his bottled sorrow trickle down the smooth edge of his cheek. He felt himself entering a torturous test of endearment.

Feeling the mounts of recounted fear in his disciplined thoughts, Steve suddenly felt his half-naked body encased with feverish sweat. His ears were deafened by eruptions of screams and maniacal laughter drifting through the recesses of his rampant mind. His broad muscles protested for release against the obstructive weight; surrendering to the floods of his rancid guilt.

He became overtaken by invading and vivid images of the Winter Soldier's merciless cold, metal hand raking against his heaving chest and digging into his bleeding heart until he felt no pulse; just an empty tempo of hollowness. When he recoiled in pain, a deep and guttural snarl tore from his rigid lips and throat was clogged with choked sobs. "Bucky..." A pant of urgency crept in his raw voice, his large hand unconsciously reached for the frame of the mattress, molding steel into the imprint of his tight fist.

_He stared into the pale blue eyes filled with fear...and a glaze of tears. Bucky was hanging onto the rail with his left hand gripping against the separating hinge while his free and shaky hand reached upwards for Steve to grasp. In his eyes the acceptance of death was visible, and his bright and warm smile melted as the tears solidified against his face as he was about to fall into the chasm of peril..._

"Stay with me..." He yelled out a wrangled cry, despairing and behest words gurgled as brutal torment made his stomach roll. Disconnected from the security of human touch, his resilient soul was spearheading into red chasms of blood and ice. The rebirth cradle of the haunting and dehumanized wraith. The nefarious phantasm that wore his best friend's visage. "I'm not letting you go...You hear me, Barnes!"

Abruptly, Steve felt his addled mind being disrupted while listening to the heavy metal of Black Sabbath pounding his ear drums, making his temples ache. He released a sharp groan of discontent and promptly grabbed the Starkphone off the small table on his right, blearily, looking at the icon of the narcissistic billionaire-genius on the screen. He screwed his eyelids shut momentarily before answering the call. "Hello," he drawled in a groggy, and labored voice. "Stark?"

"Mornin' star spangled dorito," Tony's mocking voice knelled in his ears. Steve detected the light slur, knowing that the billionaire was sipping on his morning cocktail. "I've got a mission for you, boss. It seems that some of your HYDRA pals decided to bring a small party of rebel forces to a small town. I'm sending the coordinates and also having Hill prepare the Avenge-Jet for you and the farm boy."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, irritably, "All right, I'll go suit up." He hung up the phone and quickly climbed out of bed, moving to the closet. He swiped the back of his hand over his drenched brow, messing up his spiked hairline as he reached for his uniform and inhaled deeply before grabbing his helmet.

* * *

"I was beginning to wonder if you swiped, Cap's bike," Clint spoke in a low gravelly voice, leaning causally against the door frame. He wore a red plaid shirt, unbuttoned with a white undershirt covering his densely muscled torso. His short brown hair was messy, and his chiseled aging features swathed with a faint hint of ashen.

It was hardly uncommon for him to rise hours before dawn; the archer, skilled combatant and deadpan snarker was still a guardian without his stealth tactical uniform. He was a survivor who survived a brutal life of constructive mistakes formulated by bad deeds and a lack of trust he had found in people. S.H.E.I.L.D was no longer a part of his life—he received a second chance to restore what had been stolen and butchered from him by the hidden cartels and the dominating terrorist groups throughout central Europe.

He never chose to endure such a life—it was forced onto him. After his eyes were opened, he had regained stability, fell in love with a wonderful woman and had reformed himself into a devoted husband and fun, loving and protective father.

He loved to challenge himself with a new purpose every morning. Natasha knew the true reason for his daily routine whenever he prepared breakfast and school lunches with his son and daughter. He wanted to remain alert at vulnerable times, keeping a keen lookout for danger and mostly to protect his growing family. Laura was four months pregnant. His wife was blessed with a fertile womb and never experienced the horrors Natasha had endured at the boarding school. Tasha was only a fourteen year old orphan, strapped to a medical table against her will, unable to fight as they operated and removed everything from her with their chemical transfusions. There were times were she could still feel them pumping in her veins, their tools slicing through her flawless ivory skin and the stench of her pure innocent blood spilling with torrents of pain—it never went away. She was condemned to never have a family—to have a life.

"Nat?" he whispered, momentarily staring at her thumb that slowly traced over the rim of the juice clutched in her hand. Carefully, he eased down next to her. She stiffened a little, but he didn't falter. "I'm guessing the baby is keeping you and Cap awake?" he gave her a shadow of a mere smile.

"Do I really deserve this, Clint?" she released a shallow breath, an edge was hardening in her voice. She looked physically deflated from the recurring symptoms of her pregnancy. The levels of pain made her nerves rattle and her stomach constrict with knots of sickening tension.

Uncomfortably, she wrapped her arm over her slightly thicker belly underneath a muted gray hooded; a vintage Brooklyn College sweatshirt she had swiped from Steve's assortment of clothes.

It carried the vague masculine scent of him interweaving with the frayed cotton. The sweatshirt was her security blanket—a layer of his inseparable trust that she had utilized to protect her growing baby from the unpredictable outside world. She was nearing her first week of the second trimester stage of pregnancy—the thirteenth week. The baby was no longer a cluster of merging cells; he or she had functioning organs, a small heart, nerves and muscles that held Steve's enhanced power and no weakness. One more week, and both she and Steve would discover if the tiny life was either a boy or girl.

A grimace twisted on her face which clearly revealed her warring struggle against the harsh and inconstant waves of morning sickness. Natasha was stubborn to admit that her symptoms were fluctuating rapidly. Her guess was the serum that had merged within her womb. It was becoming a difficult challenge to ease down.

"I've done unforgivable things that involved little kids at the Russian orphanage," she admitted, bitterness ragged up her throat. "I can still see the horror on their faces...Alexander Pierce was close to exposing everything that was hidden in those files...If Fury hadn't disabled the Alpha encryption...Everything I worked for would have been finished…as I would be. All of Department X's dark secrets would've been revealed if Project Insight went online..."

"Hey," he returned with a softer cadence, leaning closer to her, his shoulder brushed against hers and he looked firmly into her dismal teal eyes. "You deserve more than you can possibly imagine, Nat. Having this baby is just the beginning to starting a great life." He narrowed his eyes slightly down. "When you're out there fighting and protecting lives, you think about the end game. Now you're here with Steve, and you're protecting a new life that will never judge you for the mistakes you've made in the past. When my daughter looks up at me, she sees me and not the man the world sees, and when she smiles I know that it all comes down to protecting her with more than my bow."

Natasha jerked a little as his hand traced over the silver crescent scar embedded on the smooth flesh of her right forearm; a remnant of a knife wound she had endured during her teenage years. The pain still lingered. Her shoulders grew tense, her heart twisted and her teal eyes became obscured with malice. There was no relief from the past. She could never outrun the plagued images of the hell she had been dragged into when she trusted a man who deceived her into believing that he was her surrogate father. After being enrolled into the class, she became the perfect dancer—the reformed instrument of mastery and resistance against human emotions.

It all happened in a flash; she killed other young girls—ballerinas like her—as a way to gain employment by bashing skulls, breaking necks and dislocating bones. It was necessary to survive, although her talents were misused and she became a siren calling out to the weakness of humanity.

* * *

{Flashback}

"Once the blood seeps into your skin, Natalia," She listened to the spiteful and terse voice of her ballet instructor echo in her ears. In the transparent light streaming from the barred windows of the vast ball room, she stood in front of a cluttered table; her vacant teal eyes narrowed at the assortment of unloaded sub-machine guns, combat knives, sniper rifles and pistols. Each weapon was methodically aligned and tempering her with the reproach of carnal urges. Her gaze flew over the silver haired woman's scowling face. A thin hand seized her wrist harshly, twisting and sinking polished nails into her thin and violated flesh. Red had begun to drip out of the small compromised gashes. "It never truly fades. It becomes a part of you and merges slowly into your bones...Until you feel nothing."

Natalia didn't flinch or make an effort to blink as the inkling sense of dread clawed desperately in her scorched veins. She'd seen the first result of failure: it was an unwoven glimpse of unexceptional defiance torn out of young girls in her dance class. The numbers decreased in a month's time, and if some had the strength to perform with efficiency, they would arrive broken and dispirited.

There was no emotion or resistance welled in their cold, deaden eyes. There was just obscured veils that concealed the horrors they had endured behind the closed doors of the basement's chambers. Feeling her nose crinkle against the wafting stench of chrome and masculine sweat permeating the stale air; Natalia's altered mind commanded all bodily functions to remain pliant and observant in front of her instructor. She inhaled the intoxicating smell, letting it fill her lungs and strengthen her resolve.

She couldn't blanch away as she listened to the intimidating sound of heavy boot steps encroaching behind her. With one fluid motion, she spun around with perfect, disciplined grace and at second glance, she was trapped inside the searing glower of strikingly pale blue eyes hidden behind frays of disheveled hair. It was a man. He was much younger than the others and carried an unapproachable demeanor of lethal coldness.

Feeling very fiber in her body become consumed with dread, she then became entrance inside the glinting and menacing eyes of the lifeless husk looming over her. It was clear that he was a tortured man who had been subjected into becoming a slave to cruel orders of obedience. Drinking in his daunting presence, he appeared to have no hints of Russian ancestry; possibly Irish. Though some of his features wore the American influence. He was tall with a broad chest accentuated by his Kevlar vest. His chiseled, ragged cheek bones molded into a square curve of his strong jaw line, along with his mussed brown hair which seemed to drag at his tensed shoulders.

His complex and ghostly blue eyes carried no glimmers of sentiment or benevolence against his desensitized countenance of automation. As he stood impassive in the ambiance of shadow, she realized how evident it was to feel her heart racking in her chest when his full lips eased from a dormant expression, and grew into a fierce scowl with a hint of murderous intent.

Squaring his jaw with automatic reflex, the soldier latched his glacial eyes onto the weak points of her body, then he attacked in the instant she had broken eye contact. His abhorrent augmentation of flesh and metal snaked over her neck, the vibrating plates contorted with his enhanced strength. He placed her into arm lock, holding her into a stance of submission. He dipped his head down slowly, coaxing his wet lips over the edge of her jaw. "Do you fear death?" he asked, his deep gravelly voice sending shivers down her spine. She didn't answer. Enraged, he stroked his fingers through her red locks and continued with a notch of malice hardening in his monotone. "Answer me!"

His abrasive words stung even though she was immune to abuse. If she retorted back, it would result in an even more dangerous assault. She refused to unravel her defiance as breath ceased in her lungs. She choked out strained gulps of air, and summoned enough strength to jerk into his torso. The skin of her compromised throat burned in objection to the metal restricting against her pulsing jugular. Feeling a reprieve against the struggle, she lifted her slender legs off the granite floor. She writhed against his hard muscled frame; jabbing her elbow into his sturdy jaw, and when she felt the weight of his arm release her neck to catch a breath, she utilized her acrobatic skills. She sent him a second hard glare before maneuvering her lithe body into an unfaltering position.

Blood trickled aimlessly down her arm, but she gritted her teeth and arched her back, feeling a pull in her abdominal muscles. Her body stretched until her hands touched the dusty floor and her feet rested flatly over the cracks. She was performing a back bridge: one leg was raised from the floor, giving her impart momentum to her lower body. She was trying to impress the newest student of the Red Room, using all her skills and seduction to distract him enough. She performed a handstand then flipped into a rhythmic pose away from him until she returned to an erect stance of stable balance.

"Impressive, Natalia," her handler spoke with a gravity of morbid satisfaction, her serpentine gray eyes shifted to the American and nodded. His towering body resumed into a standing position. "There will be only a few more tests before your graduation. You have proven to us that you will be our greatest student. You will not fail...Will you, little Natalia?" the woman asked, regarding her with unconvinced gape.

A shaky gasp tore from her bruised lips, all emotion dissolved in the moment she felt the control of the transfused serums ravaging in her feverish veins. She was descending into the darkening abyss, numb and frozen—barely restrained and allowed to escape from the awaiting nightmares that coaxed her in the vacant corridor.

Unhinged and absent from all apparitions of pain, she faded deep inside a slate prison without remnants of memories to lure her back into reality. Lost without reason, Natalia lifted her head up into, her dilated grayish-green eyes stared at the kindling embers of the fireplace. She gave into the untamed urges of blood lust and obsession in feeling one's pulse fade against her hands. She couldn't detach from the powerful and constant stirrings of obedience. Finally, her lips unclasped and she answered, with an unwavering deadpan, "No, I will not fail."

"I want you to pick up a gun. Your target is the wall. Three bullets must enter the center brick. No mistakes or hesitation."

A chorus of screeching and merciless cries rattled through the corridor. It was a child's final protest against death. Within seconds, a gun thundered off—a shattering discharge—and her stomach churned into a ball as the soldier's metal palm dug into her shoulder. He ushered her with violent force to the table where he slammed her head against the edge, and she found herself staring at muzzle of a pistol. The cold steel barrel reflected in her widened gaze; it was tempting, imploring and seducing her to grasp it in her unwilling hand.

Left with no choice, Natalia curled her fingers over the weapon, and reined herself up. Blood. Control. Power. It was corrupting her as the vicious desire thrummed in her veins. Her eyes darkened into a blank state of mind as the trigger was pulled. Bullets cut through the stone, and dust lingered in the air.

Her soul was polluted with the essence of the serum. Chains bounded her until she suffocated, and in response to the unhinged torrents of pain, she emptied the clip and listened to her own gasping breath. When she awoke from the red daze; awareness of humanity brought her back to the world and she glanced down at laden, small body flopping on the floor. Underneath her classmate was a puddle of blood. She had taken a life—they evolved her into becoming what she used to fear when innocence still existed within her. A monster.

* * *

"Nat?" Clint called her back, his voice lapping against the interwoven threads of her disdainful soul. Natasha whisked all the vivid and clawing images out of her tortured mind at the mere touch of comfort and the conscience of security.

Responding to the tendrils of warmth, she snapped her eyes open and searched through the settling glow of bright pink and azure cutting through the wisps of clouds across the vast, green and untouched field.

She was back in the present, shaken and distant, but she felt consumed by guilt and the dark world dissolved around her as the bright sunlight blasted in the depth of her eyes. Everything was threatening to be ripped apart and yet Clint's determined and trusting plea lulled her to break out of the nightmarish vortex and find a clear passage back to where she needed to be...Home.

"Clint..." she gasped harshly, her skin heating under his brotherly caress. She shook her head wildly, her tousled curls slashed over her cheeks. Her arm wrenched around his shoulders and she rammed her face into his chest as she senses the awful realization that she was condemned never to dream—to never embrace a breath of freedom. "I've killed so many..." She blurted; raw and vindictive as tears rolled down her pallid face. She looked right up into his consoling gray eyes, hardly breathing. "...I pulled the trigger on little girls who were the same age as Lila. I did terrible things, Clint." She didn't want to add, _because it was her mission as the Black Widow to murder little, weak orphans in the Red Room_.

She felt her pacing heart steadying in her chest. "Pierce was right...I can't let the world see me for what I truly am...I'm not human...Just a mutation of bad circumstance."

The archer narrowed his dismal eyes, and released a deep pitch of breath. "Don't think about the past, Nat. It was out of your control."

He rocked her in the embrace of his solid arms, easing the hot flashes of pain devouring inside her. "Stop letting those damn mistakes of the past have control over everything that is happening in this moment...You're having a baby with Captain America." There was a brush of gentleness in his gruff voice that broke through the mundane haze of silence.

Beneath all the transparent shades covering the sadness in his voice, she heard strength. A trusting and stable ascendance of humanity. It was for her. He took another glance at the visible scarring on her wrist. "So now, believe yourself to be free to live. Don't let this unmake you. You're strong and deep down you know that the only person who can save you from drowning in the red is you, Nat."

Natasha swallowed, pain thrummed in her bones. "I've been drowning all my life, Clint." she returned with a nonchalant voice. A tormented look veiled over her face. She stared up at her partner and best friend, her gaze piercing.

"It's because of you that I haven't fallen into a grave yet...Why did you choose to make that call? You could have followed your orders and taken me out—finished the mission?" she asked with a deaden tone. Clint suddenly became uneasy, his glare unabashedly held an unbidden answer. His face morphed into a semblance of coldness and stiffened with vacant emotion; restraining against her words.

Instinctively, her fingers curled over his rough hand and she felt the calm thud of his pulse. Clint glanced at her and curved his lips into smirk. The skin around his vigor gray eyes crinkled, and she listened to a hollow breath tear from his lips. "It's always a choice to take away another life, but after doing it so many times, I felt regret. You spend years searching for their graves to tell them it was a mistake. I chose not to kill you because I saw a lost young woman behind the trained KBG operative. A young woman with a lot to offer, and I knew she was a life worth saving."

"Clint, I know there's more to that reason," Natasha spoke in a low murmur, slanting her lips into a weak smirk. She took a delicate sip, relishing the mixture of steeped tea and honey melting down her throat. "...you don't have to say anything. I figured it out during that night in Budapest," she pointed out tersely; reining herself back up, and leaning rigid against the stair rail. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed into a slight expression of acceptance to the reserves of truth that were buried underneath the scars. "We're more than partners in this business. You're my best friend and without you being here, I'm really not sure how I will survive the coming months—"

He gave her a clear and simple answer. "You have, Steve," he reminded her, "I know you two have your differences, Nat, but he's the only one who can keep you standing on solid ground." He managed to slant his lips into a ghost of small smile filled with assurance. But it was gone before it could have been nurtured to a wide spread of hope from her. "Nat, listen to me; trust and love can become our greatest strengths—you're using them as forms of pain to hide the real you."

Natasha regarded him coldly for a moment, scolding her best friend; the arrow that sliced through the chains that restricted her. He had a crestfallen look plastered over his aging face, and she immediately felt the dimness of disgust absorbing over the pallor of her facade. Eventfully, she resolved to unleash her aggression "Stop caring about me, Clint," she snapped tersely, holding a bite of accusation teaming with vehemence in her voice. "Go back inside, spend time with your family, and let me handle this situation alone."

He didn't break eye contact. His brow creased as he held her icy stare. "You're my family too, Natasha." He quietly returned, stroking her arm while she sagged into a submissive posture. "I'm not leaving you alone on this even if you're shutting me out. Don't forget: you're living under my roof, so that kind of puts me in the loop with your whole transcendence to living a normal…" Her green eyes flared with ire. "Well starting a new life."

She groaned a little and pressed the mug against her forehead, warring thoughts slipped into the recesses of her mind. Steve was everything that resembled freedom, stability and the purest measures of love. She couldn't diminish him and allow him to share another experience of pain. She was a perfected assassin, butchered and processed by the cruel ideals of the Red Room that always resulted in death. Though however unsettling it seemed, she knew that whatever damage still resided inside of her, when corrupt and none of the serum—his loving essence would never fix that damning truth. You'll always run back to the shadows.

Inside the weaves of her soul, the venomous urges of the Black Widow craved for numbness, self-preservation and unbidden tranquilly of mortal detachment. She didn't want to fall into normalcy. There were lines that could never be crossed, she was fundamentally incapable of feeling normal…and yet feeling the absence of his warmth rake against her bones, she wanted to fall into his arm shields and melt—just melt into every ounce of his strength, valor and virtues.

_She clutched her pistol close to her chest, her finger brandished the trigger as the explosion rattled through her bones. Metal hinges scraped over her skin as sparks flew against her. The freeway became a chaotic mess of devastation. Shards of glass from smashed windshields rained over swerving vehicles. Echoes of screams made blood rush in her ears; her whole body was numb and the skin underneath her leather jacket turned raw while her elbows dragged across the road._

_Violent flashes of red blotted her vision. She couldn't move. Her glassy eyes were blinded by the increasing amounts of pain flooding in her veins. Everything was being ensnared by veils of fear in those mere seconds. She tasted the copper tang of blood slathering over her lips._

_Then, the world darkened as a loud of clang of metal deafened her ears. She lifted her gaze up, watching Sam double roll out of the passenger seat, and Steve...Where was Steve? She was panting heavy pitches of breath, searching frantically for any sign of his blonde hair atop his massive body in a moment of sheer disbelief. Natasha felt his solid arm looping over her shoulders and the pressure of his muscular chest grounding her firmly against the shield as they slid past a mini-van._

_Tires screeched around them, but he was holding onto her and in that moment when her head lift up, his wet lips brushed reassurance on her jaw. There he was protecting her. Just like a chivalrous knight did to his lady when swords clashed inside the whirls of a firestorm. He was her shield and she was his lady._

"You make it sound like Rogers is my lifeline..." There was abate in her low voice, a sudden flare of lucid doubt crossed the blood streams in her veins. "He's not a thread I can hold onto, Clint. We come from two different worlds, except my world is a lot darker and structured by lies." She pulled away from the rail, feeling muddled by the reoccurring truth that she was unworthy of Steve's acceptance, stability and the permanent home he offered. "I also think that I'm..."

"Barton," Steve's authoritative voice suddenly cut through the air waves. He emerged from the screen door, clad fully in his navy blue embossed stealth uniform, the center reflective star caught a stream of sunlight piecing from the cloud cover. He clutched the strap of his helmet in a half-gloved fingered hand hanging at his side.

"Stark intercepted a distress call from a bordering city of Slovakia. Heavy shell fire has been reported from invading rebel forces..." Natasha intently listened to the reverence in his baritone. He dipped his azure eyes down at the Starkphone, scanning over the message. "So far, ten casualties and twenty wounded...We need to launch a direct assault on the main exit points that have been obstructed," he used a level of authority and set his eyes that held flares of determination on Barton, not at Natasha. He stiffened against the frame while his jaw clenched. "How fast can you suit up?"

Clint looked directly at Steve and swallowed thickly. "It doesn't take me long, Cap," he confirmed with a grace of a broad smile before rising to his feet. He leveled his gray eyes with Steve's battle hardened look. "I just need to check up on Laura and the kids." He brushed passed Natasha and moved to the doorway, throwing his keys at Steve who caught them easily. "The truck is in the back, if you want to start her up."

"Not long, Barton." Steve dismissed with a clear look, stuffing the phone into one of his belt's pouches. He kept his head lowered, and heaved out a frustrated breath, "I know what you're going to say, Nat, and the answer is "no". You're two months pregnant and I am not risking your life—our baby's life—inside a battle zone." His voice sounded harsh and a little shaky; gruffer and unnaturally serious to her ears.

Natasha shook her head and spoke evenly. "My stealth armor is bullet proof with tri-weaved fiber. I think the baby will be well protected, Steve. You should know by now that I never obey a direct order." Steve frowned at her, his focused eyes leveled to her belly. She straightened off the steps, her straggly red hair slashed against her face and her eyes glared darkly at him; a threat was stirring behind her teal eyes which showed her refusal to stay grounded at the farm house. Tension was slicing in her veins.

* * *

After visiting his daughter and son, Clint found his wife standing in front of the bedroom closet. His arrow quiver was clutched in her arms, nestled against her prominent belly underneath a red bathrobe. Smiling knowingly, she leaned against the wooden frame of the door, long chocolate ringlets cascaded off her shoulder. She stared at him, holding specks of the morning light glittering in her coffee embers while he stood pliant in the shadows filled with unease.

At first, they didn't say anything. He quickly undressed, throwing the wad of his shirt and jeans into a hamper. Laura walked closer to the bedside, intently staring at the crescents of silver stars that were embedded on his rough, chiseled chest. She lifted her hands to his face, her fingers stroked delicately over his broad jaw and his gray eyes narrowed to meet her tender stare. "Duty calls," he sighed, placing his hands on her arms. "I'll only be back on the ground for a few days," he promised, his voice crackling. "When I return, we have a nursery to finish—"

"Don't worry about, Natasha. I'll teach her the ropes," Laura whispered, her lips pulling into a weak smile. Her palm splayed assurance over his left pectoral, feeling the rhythmical thrum of his strong heart pumping against her fingers. "Just remember you may not have super powers, but you do have a good heart, Clint. And sometimes that is more powerful than a bottle of serum. You're children know that their father is a hero—just like Captain America."

He breathed and leaned against her slender frame, feeling her belly rub against his torso as she brought her hands up and framed the ragged edges of his jaw," My heart belongs to you, so really you're my strength when I leave home base," he murmured, fighting the nonchalance, but she was pulling him out. When the softness of her lips brushed unwavering heat against the edge of his mouth, he felt heaviness pile over his chest and wet eyes blurred his vision, but he never faltered back. "I love you..." He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkled as he dropped a nourishing kiss fully on her lips, feeling the warmth of her enter him. The kiss grew quickly became passionate, deep and breathless as their lips and tongues moved against each other's. His nose dug into her jaw as her arm freely lifted against his shoulder. He was holding her and cradling her in his arms, touching and stroking her mass of hair.

When they broke away, he panted for a breath and rested his forehead against hers. His warm breath ghosted over her skin as he nuzzled his nose with hers, looking deep into her brown eyes before dropping a soft kiss on her brow. "Stay safe, Laura," he whispered, backing away from her and grabbing his dark burgundy long jacket, his straps and elbow guards. He knew that when he walked out of the door, he was an Avenger—his family was not a part of that world, but still he carried a picture of them.

* * *

"We're coming with you, Captain Rogers," Natasha breathed out carnally. She folded her arms over the swell underneath the heavy layer of her sweatshirt. She invaded his space, holding his pensive stare while resisting the urge to regard him with a harsh glower. Her steps were slow and cautious. She didn't want to disturb the beast that was grinding against the copper wire that held the fierceness of it at bay "... and that is final."

Steve gritted his teeth behind tightly closed lips, his azure eyes became smoldering embers of venting aggression, "That's enough," he shrugged with a more darker bite in his tone than he intended. He twisted his lip as bitter lines formed in his skin that made him appear daunting more than what his normally boyish handsome visage held. Anger was brimming to the surface as he felt his soul degenerating into a pile of slush against the engulfing flames of vehemence. His tight jaw hardened as he stared at her with dread wracking through him. "Stop being so reckless with your life...This isn't just about you anymore, Nat." He tore his eyes away, and pressed his lips into flat line of anguish. "I can't be worried about you and the baby while trying to save over a dozen lives...It's a risk I'm not willing to take and you shouldn't either." He hoped those words lanced into her heart.

"What about your life, Steve?" she protested against him with a firm and disturbed voice. She looked deeply into his pained gaze. "I'm not raising our baby solo. I need my partner on this mission..." She bit down on her lip, feeling the blood ravel in her veins. "My right partner," she professed, taking his hand and guided his palm across the swollen flat planes of her stomach.

He breathed, feeling the weight of pain dissolve against the faint surge of movement of his child. He blinked; feverishly, dazed and staring into her temperate teal eyes searching for his resolve. They were on the knife's edge, the ground wasn't solid beneath him. Aftershocks of regret vibrated against the walls of his chest. Everything was crumbling into pieces; he felt unbalanced.

When the cool relief of her thumb traced the arch of his lip, Steve seized her wrist, gripping and uncertain. The strength and devotion for her was betrayed by consuming remorse. "Stay here for me, Natasha," he drew out a calm breath, faintly closing his eyes and tipping his head down adjacent against her forehead. "I need a home to come back to..." he uttered, his voice carried echoes of olden grievances. "Sorry, that didn't come out right," he lightly grimaced and his invariable and stormy blue eyes glistened in the flecks of light as he added, "I just want you safe."

Natasha swathed her fingers underneath the thickness of his heavy chin, "I'll stay," she whispered, even though her feral instincts were protesting with disagreement of her uncharacteristic choice. The afresh maternal part of her knew it was the rational decision. The baby's safety was her first and foremost priority. Its life was in her possession, it wouldn't be stolen from the Red Room and she had to fight the ingrained nature of the Black Widow. She had to evolve.

Feeling the claws of reluctance rake over her heart, Natasha averted her gaze and gnawed on her lip when she met his sincere gaze. "Just don't expect me to be happy about it."

Steve sighed a breathless hitch of relief. He stepped another inch closer and pressed his weight into hers, his arms wrapped around her belly and she leaned into him the moment warmth enveloped her. The bend of his two fingers resting beneath her chin, tilted her lips up to him and their lips found each other. Her lips shadowed over the arch of his beautiful mouth. Only a twist of nausea compelled her to halt in that moment when their breaths solidified and pulses evened.

Natasha froze, unable to writhe out of the embrace when the liquid fire of his mouth coated the edges of her lips and joined hers with fiery passionate kiss; slow and desperately tentative as they delved into each other's mouths. Her twining hands stroked over the smoothness of his cheeks and ventured to the nape of his neck. His upper lip curled slightly up when she angled her head and fully crushed everything into him.

She clung to his warmth, allowing it seep inside her throbbing body then rested her face over his smooth chest, listening to the steady beat of his strong heart. Steve then pulled back slightly and gazed tenderly into her teal orbs. His hand stroked over the side of her face and he rested his forehead upon hers. One of his hands rubbed over her belly and stayed there. His eyes rose and met hers and the edges of his lips widened into a cherishing and sweet smile.

Natasha smiled back tenderly with a beautiful red beam across her full lips. She nuzzled her cheek against the razor edge curvature of his jaw. Her hand covered his as they both felt the faint vibrations of their child. He enveloped his lips over hers with another nourishing kiss and she responded with a hard thrust of her lips against his. Both of their eyes closed as they ventured deeper—plunging into true, undeniable love.

When they broke away, his hand didn't leave her belly. Instead he smiled and looked deeply into her eyes before professing, "I love you so much, Nat."

She froze as a spasm entered her chest and she cradled his face into her hands, keeping him captive in the glints of her dangerous allure that shone in her eyes. She idly moved her hand down and swiped the phone from his pocket, tucking the sleek device under her curled fingers.

"Will you do me a favor," she said in an even breath, mirroring his soft gaze. Steve nodded, wordlessly. Natasha slanted her frame against the broad structure of his armored chest while inventing some way to deceive him with a simple distraction with her words. "Take care of Clint for me. We've always had each other's backs, and now that I can't be his shadow. He needs you, Steve, to bring him home."

Steve rapped his fingers over her belly and pressed his lips on her forehead, putting himself at surreal ease. He then set off down the steps with the metallic red rings of his shield catching her reflection just as the pink streams of light pierced from the cloud cover. She stood there for a moment, watching his vigorous muscles flex under the uniform as he walked across the gravel and she waited for him to amble into the direction of the barn.

When his brawny visage was out of her scrutiny, Natasha pulled out his Starkphone from the sweatshirt's pocket and intently fixed her eyes on the screens wallpaper image of her leaning against his motorcycle, red hair draped over her face and black leather hugging her curves. She smiled a little at that memory as she pressed her poised thumb over Maria Hill's contact icon. The phone dialed and she waited for a response.

"This is Hill," Maria's strict voice echoed from the speaker.

"Maria I need one of Stark's jets...Have JARVIS triangulate my safe house location." She paused for moment, cradling her arm over her constricting belly, a faint wince torn from her lips. "Call Sam Wilson and tell him that he's going on a reconnaissance mission with me. Code name: Chasing the eagle."

"Chasing the eagle," Maria repeated with somewhat curiosity laced in her voice. "I'm guessing you're disobeying Cap's direct order and you want me to ask Pepper if you can borrow one of Stark's private jets so you can not only endanger your life, but also the baby?"

"The baby will be fine," Natasha assured, falsely. "Besides, I will have Sam as my co-pilot."

"Alright, give me at least four hours to make the arrangements. I will contact you once everything has been set, Agent Romanoff."

Smirking, Natasha slid her palms over her abdomen to rest just under her navel. She pressed lightly, discovering a fluttering pulse of movement secured under layers of her compacted muscle. The pulse was still weaker than she imagined it to feel like, but it was increasing with strength every day and soon she would embrace the joy of listening to her baby's heartbeat with Steve at her side. "V pogone za Orel..." she spoke to her growing child with her Russian tongue, her lips curving into a grin. "Let's go save your Daddy, vozlyublennaya."

* * *

_lyubov '-love_

_moy luchshiy devochka-my best girl_

_moy soldat-my soldier_

_V pogone za Ore-chasing the eagle_

_vozlyublennaya-sweetheart_

A/N: A big thank you goes out to my wonderful friend and to all the readers. Enjoy and thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Unbroken _**

**_{Chapter 6}_**

* * *

_Deep breath, Ната́ша,_

Natasha felt the constant ache of regret harboring in her distant, guarded soul; she didn't know what direction to take. Her posture was firm, resolute. Her reinforced tactical boots were grounded on the white painted steps of the Barton's farmhouse porch.

Unbidden guilt had stalked her, awakening her warped senses with a loitering smell of potent, tainted and soiled blood; marking her alabaster skin with unfading red webs of another lifetime she had no soul to claim as her own.

After an indistinct moment of recollecting her choices, despite rushes of unsettled bile churning up her strained throat; Natasha resumed her grayish teal eyes dismally skyward; fighting against the impasse of choice and raw emotional complexes; feeling the remnants of hesitation thinning away.

To her rational array of instincts, it became a continued sense of weakness—volition—when facing a new storm arising on the horizon.

Under normal circumstances, she would have wasted no time and sprung into the line of fire with Steve and Clint; discharge a few rounds and maintaining all sectors of untainted HYDRA security protocols, but it seemed like an abnormal evolution was pinning her down and the growing apparitions of fear for the life blood of Captain America—the child that was secured in her swelling womb had alternated reserves of her immense strength with protective sentiments. The baby's life was dependent on every decision she would make in the impending months of her pregnancy.

Fire seized in her gut for a vague moment, Natasha knew that her daughter or son was the core of the mission, as pain followed the trek of searing coldness rippling in her veins, but only momentarily.

Once more, the past of her horrid nightmares had grappled her back into the contracting void. She was rarely unprepared, frozen and unable to withdraw out of the unpredictable illusion of failure.

She stared intently at the transparent canvas of embellished azure splashed against muted colors of golden seams of light reflecting over heavy entanglements of obscuring clouds: morning was still present, but she became vaguely aware of the disruption of encroaching darkness looming with a feel of an intimate storm brewing in the distance.

_It was nearly three in the morning when Natasha woke to the distant sound of a strangled gasp—a desperate plea for release from the barrages of torment coursing through his mind. Her body leaned upright, bolting out of the bedside chair the moment he twisted under the linen sheets; thrashing his broad arms wildly against the rails, tangling the IV's lines attached to his wrist. The nursing stuff had diminished in the hallways._

_She had ignored the visiting hours that weren't permitted during early morning, wearing a guise of a doctor, black scrubs just to protect his dormant-bedridden form. Eating a chilled ice cream bar from a vending machine wasn't her best option for snacking, but it supplied a bit of relief to her when his breathing elevated into harsh pants, and sweat glazed his tarnished skin with feverish treks over his bare, carved torso serving as a canvas of discolored gashes, welts and yellow patches of bruising under his pectorals._

_Gingerly with much effort of confidence, she grabbed his twitching hand, curling her fingers over his pulsing knuckles with a gentle squeeze of assurance. "I know you're in pain, Steve," she answered the echoes of his beckoning cries, her raspy voice wavered into a cadence of hinting empathy. Her thumb brushed over his bruised wrist."You're going to win this fight. Captain America always finds a way to beat the odds and you never back down, _солдат."

_Becoming self-aware with each passing moment, Steve listened to the measure of genuine urgency in her voice, clear and beautiful against the droning bleeps of the heart monitor encompassing in his ears. It hurt to breathe; harsh muscle spasms ignited in his fractured ribs as he managed convene a low process of awakening from his nightmarish disjointed state. Thoughts drifted by low volumes of sound; he realized that he was depending on Natasha; searching for her hand to pull him out before he could become held captive to his distant regrets. _

_"Steve, come on, old man, you've slept for seventy years, remember? You did more practice with dancing..." She urged, sliding the tips of her fingers over his scraped knuckles, but waiting for a response seemed taxing._

_With a stern pitch of voice, Natasha executed command, she never reduced a moment to disparage the value of their friendship. _

_Determined to remain strong and fight the betrayal of her emotions; she interlocked her fingers with his callused digits; securing warmth with a fastened embrace of defining her trust."Now, you listen to me, Captain Rogers, you've got a lot of people counting on you to wake up. No falling back, unless you want me to replay Sam's track list, because don't think I will..."_

_Groaning out a muffled noise, Steve felt his bones jostling as unrested disturbance fogged his senses. Obtrusive weight of his pain crushed him against the mattress, barring him from motion. His nose crinkled as stench of a expelled fever reeked over his muscles. His throat felt raw from the lack of use in his voice. And she was so close, that he relished in warmth emitting off her skin. _

_He peeled his chalky lips open; breath escaped during his first attempt to muster up the arrival of an indecipherable whisper. "Tasha..." he slurred lowly, wrestling out syllables of an expected question._

_ "Are you okay?"_

_Her lips slanted into a weak smirk, gripping his arm. She summoned enough poise and dominance, holding back of what she assumed were tears. "I'm fine, Rogers. The illusion of worry lessened over her paled features. "Well, I'm a lot better off than you, considering those battle scars you carry."_

_Steve weakly mirrored her coy grin, his blue eyes regained clarity under the shadow of his eyelashes, and then focused his resolve on her blaze of scarlet ringlets, twining curls shaping over her angelic face, but he knew that darkness in her eyes would never abide to the gravity of sympathy. "Remind me never to ask you that question again."_

_"Noted," she returned evenly, offering him up one of her roguish smiles that Steve read all too well. "Honestly, you need to get back into action, Steve," she patted his disused arm."The guys miss hearing your old war stories...Well, Thor especially." He settled his glassy blue eyes on the plate of banana bread Sam had made for him, and digressed out a sigh. Natasha detected his disquiet and continued."Tony has been underground for months, Pepper keeps in touch. And Clint has been recovering from a mission in Romania. So, you haven't really missed out..."_

_"I've been on the bench too long, Nat," he winced, inclining his head off the pillow, his ruffled blonde hair spiked in the wake of compression, and his slacked brow creased as he failed to straighten his body into a comfort position under the layer of sheets. His pained crystal eyes caught slits of light bleeding through the shadows of the dim room; over the plastic tubes and wires attached to his body, when his hard abdomen crunched the EKG stickers, creating friction on his exposed muscles. Glints of the dawn streamed through the curtains. "How long have I been in here...It feels like I've slept for another seventy years."_

_"Not long," Natasha grinned beguilingly, doing her best to keep his mind less focused on the dull misery reflecting in his hazed blue eyes. She reached for a plastic cup of apple juice and ripped off the seal, handing it effortlessly to him. "A couple of days at the least." Steve accepted the drink with a muted nod, and took small cautious sips as the gash on his lips stung."You're making good progress. I'm guessing you'll be out by the end of the week. If you keep yourself out of trouble with the nurses."_

_"Natasha—" Steve admonished quietly, catching his breath, his busted lips fastened into a taut line, "I'm not worrying about dating any hospital dames." Unhinged embers of defiance kindled in his stern eyes, unwavering with recognized guilt of holding back a life time promise: until the end of line._

_For days, Steve had tortured himself, pinning all the sickening blame on the mistake Captain America made on the edge of Zola's train; ever since he'd stared into the deaden gaze of HYDRA's dehumanized assassin, the iciness of blue that held no memory or brotherly love—just granted pain and reckoning of death._

_Breathing deeply, he commanded the square edge of his heavy jaw to clench as his pulse spiked with a torrential rush of adrenaline. He clamped his eyes in resentment. A single tear slid down his temple. "I can't-I can't stay here." He managed in a dry gasp; frustratingly summoning up his moral composure to evaluate the outcome of his choice to chase after the ghost of his best friend—alone. Resonating, unfathomable denial and pain fractured his chiseled, battered features."I have a mission to finish."_

_"Steve, leave the Winter Soldier...I mean Barnes in the dark." she urged softly, swallowing down her bitterness. Vivid images flashed in her wandering mind, almost holding her with treason as shadowing memories infested, and she was trapped in the distorting reflection of ice—staring into desensitize azure eyes, haunting and filled with glints of malice. He stared into her soul, prying resilience out of her; wordlessly calling her back into the caving void as the threatening clutch of his metal hand reached to drag her within the ice._

_Natasha felt her chest tighten in the moment; her teeth grounded. Fighting the spirals of conflict, she narrowed her gaze at her trim waist, imagining the discolored and affected skin of the Odessa scar, tearing apart in the wake of a cold intrusion of possessed memory."You can't fix the damage that has been done, Steve. If Barnes wants you to find him, he'll leave you a blood trail to follow."_

_"No, Tasha," he seethed in a cracking protest, flexing his jaw against her envisage warning. "I'm not going to pretend that Bucky doesn't exist. He's not a some machine that HYDRA can play with… He's all the family I've got left," he admitted dismally, his veins burned with pumps of another dosage of morphine._

_ His face crumpled into a grimace and his breath clogged with uneven hitches to evoke a reminder that he had survived another war with HYDRA—only this time, victory seemed absent._

_ "I'm taking a stand for his sake, and I will do whatever it takes to get him back." His expression hollowed, and his voice didn't waver._

_ Natasha reined her posture back against the chair; a bit daunted by his raw declaration of saving a man-a weaponzied and brutal monster—who had left her to bleed in the mountain pass._

_ "Friends never turn their backs on each other..." He cleared his throat and set his jaw, deciding on the inevitable choice to follow Bucky's shadow. "I won't turn mine on Buck."_

_"How are you planning on finding him?" she pried, her voice teeming with an edge of indifference. She quickly rose from the chair, swaying her sculpted curves to the window; crossing her arms protectively over her solid bust."You only know his face, but nothing of his past."_

_"I'll figure it out." Steve regarded her with a hard, driven look, searing azure orbs bored into her skull as they exchanged another unreadable gaze with each other; rejecting deficits of their unspoken emotions. "I'm not askin' you to help me, but you know damn well that Bucky is being used for HYDRA. So if you don't want to give me directions to follow, I fully accept your decision."_

_"You're terrible at this, Steve," she retorted in an irate breath, shifting her teal eyes to the amber glow of light illumining through the parking lot down below. _

_She shook her head, reluctant to offer him assistance. Copper wisps of curls hung over her lips, obscuring a less effective smirk upon her reasoning. "Alright. I'll offer my services to you, but on one condition...Whatever you find, keep it to yourself. The Winter Soldier's past isn't a nice story to read, believe me I've tried to piece it together."_

_Steve felt a weak smile tug on his lips, his gentle blue eyes crinkled, matching the stretched corners of his mouth. He had always believed in her, despite her previous employment, but those sins were slowly etching away; and there was something unmistakable forming between them. "You know somethin' Natasha, you're terrible at lyin'...You said there's no good in you, but clearly that is a defective truth."_

_She smirked, eyeing the IV bag. "Are you sure it's not the morphine talkin' since you are on a heavy dosage?" Without giving him time to answer, she inched closer, and caressed his bruised jaw with a weightless swipe of her knuckles, feeling the prick of faint stubble bristling his skin."Get some rest, Steve," she ordered in a soothing whisper, staring deeply into his heavy-lidded blue eyes, and tilted her head downward, pressing the swell of her lips into a tentative kiss on his feverish skin. She backed away, watching him drift into a contented sleep, and when he was out, she walked away, not turning back._

_"Don't go where I can't follow you," she whispered to him again. Don't go._

It became an absent sense of attachment; harsh and unrelenting pain morphed into searing remorse, mauling against the exterior layers of her torn heart; fraying her willpower into shreds, and not giving her a chance to release building tears that sat in her eyes.

She'd been unprepared to carry out the mission, her unborn child was growing strong in her womb; the components of the alpha serum were merging within her bones, giving her renewed strength to push her limits and overcome the harrowing situations that she would soon face alone—_well maybe not fully alone. _However, she did feel detached from the aspects of maternal love that soon became weaving instincts coursing through her veins; the intangible need to protect her baby at all cost, to fight against the hordes of the demons birthed in the realm of the Red Room, and to reclaim her freedom—her one chance to embrace what had been stolen from her: humanity.

* * *

{Red Room}

In the ambiance of the old, abandoned theater, Natalia stood behind the planes of glass, still and observant to the shadows enthralling her to follow the vague stench of spilled-innocent blood wavering through the vast corridors that surrounded her displaced body.

She became attuned to the encroaching shades around her; the red haze glowing on polished mahogany walls and granite flooring, with curved brass lamps holding the constant illumination of deceptive warmth against darkness. It offered no comfort to the young orphans limping up the stairwell behind her, their taped feet bruised from dancing the same routine of pure discipline—an endless performance to erase vestiges of weakness, and harbor vigil and control of their flawless bodies; and to never break when the piano replayed the somber, inexorable melody.

_'They dance for life.'_ She always heard the haunting, spiteful cadence of Ivan's voice, a cold reminder of the reason why she had become a captive in a dance school that transformed girls into dark, blood-lusting ravens instead of graceful swans _'They're unbreakable. Dancers. Symbols of dedication and prime obedience. The piano keys play the melody and the girls follow every tempo, my little Natalia.'_

For two years, Natalia craved to feel warmth penetrate bone-deep within her scars; the need was unfathomable to tolerate. To accept the need became a weakness that wasn't easily shared by her fellow classmates; she was considered an outsider among the selected ranks—an unavailing stray without moral purpose; destined to be purged from the sheltering depths of humanity.

_'Do you want to dance, little Natalia?'_

The little red haired girl who was birthed in the desolated streets of Stalingrad—Natalia Alianovna Romanova—lost everything in blink of eye: existence, love and hope because she allowed the macabre shades of red to pierce through the innocence of her irreproachable shadow.

Soon after the merciless deal had sparked to life with a firm handshake, Natalia tasted the bitterness of betrayal when she entrusted a Russian soldier, deemed him as her surrogate father; and allowed him to mold her into an obedient daughter. She followed his orders and never hesitated to execute his commands.

_...Natalia, come, there is someone I want you to meet..._

Believing in Ivan, she put all measures of faith into his tarnished promises of making her a dancer of the Bolshoi Theater, but each covenant had only brought visages of pain that kept on devouring until she became numb to protest against it.

Beyond the glass, another strict performance was in session; mature girls twirled on extended feet, holding precise balance as their sylph bodies spun like rotating clockwork on the stage—mechanisms of strife and precision; the balance of harnessing dominance over pain and wearing disguises of marble to hide the terror that welled under the surface of their idealistic, mirrored smiles.

Their expressions were hollow as the metallic guns that were loaded with three bullets, resting on top of the piano, to keep order in line if hinged links of the chain unlocked.

They weren't eager girls, just specters of their former selves; nearly ghosts trapped in the sinister grayness of the stage; their marred hands cuffed behind their backs as they were fastened in lines of sync and poise; lithe bodies dressed in black leotards with hair tightened into buns that reveal every crease of paleness.

The ballerinas' were beautiful, angelic, graceful and dangerous. If they broke the rhythm of expected harmony, the music would stop, and their bodies would shatter as weakness in the group would be removed. Faults were something that no dancer could afford, not in the soulless eyes of the demons that fed off their bleeding failures.

_'They never falter, because if one falls out of line, red paints the stage.'_

Responding to the coldness of those malicious words, Natalia managed to give her instructor a effortless nod; feeling her blood run cold in the moment a towering shadow devoured the light casting over her small, violated body.

The disfavoring taste of blood tainted her dormant lips, treks of metallic and bitter acid, searing into her exposed heart and turning her bones into marble. Natalia was hopelessly condemned to feel nothing, just remain still as the touch of ice traced over her ivory skin—hollowness of her pain obscured the embers of grayish emerald, the enigmatic color that held last remaining memories of her deceased mother became a vacant ambiance of tractability to the simple commands echoing in her ears.

_'Are you ready for the next performance, little Natalia?'_

"I'm not a good dancer," she admitted in a low breath, refusing to look at the shadow looming behind her. It wasn't until she caught the sheen of handcuffs that she knew submission was her only option to survive.

Natalia wanted to resist, but her life was nothing to them, just a stringed marionette that would shatter into pieces. They would remake her, twist the weaves of her innocent soul and violate her heart with scars, deep until blood poured out. They would mold her by instrumental torments, strip her flesh and infuse her veins with rancid venom until she accepted the bite of death."I will fall..."

_'With practice you will never fail a lesson.'_

* * *

"I will never fail," Natasha answered the phantoms in a pitch of despondence; she felt the coldness of the sleek metal slide against her fingers. Fighting against the eruptions of harsh sickening waves of nausea growing constant in her swollen abdomen, she quickly placed the pistol into a hostler strap wrapped around her sculpted thigh.

Her skin became glazed with sickening perspiration and her teal eyes were heavy-lidded as she fought against the urge to race into the bathroom and flip the toilet seat up.

Summoning all measures of her composure, Natasha gritted her teeth, and staggered towards the barn. She then halted in her strides; taking a moment to seize control of her betraying emotions.

It became an interminable moment; muscle joints and rigid bones were riddled with an assault of spasms and her vision glazed with a feverish haze.

"Not again," she grumbled in a shuttering breath, and instantly squatted down to her shaky knees, and parted her quivering lips. Her stomach lurched and regressed as the bitter taste of bile arose in her throat. Everything gurgled inside, and gagging noises consumed her labored hitches of breath as she emptied out the contents of her stomach—releasing all the remnants of breakfast onto the grass and trying to grasp onto the strongholds of her turbulent mind.

After heaving out the last pint of bile, Natasha wiped her lips, crawling towards a hard surface. The planes of her back pressed against the barn's wooden door, trying to ease down the increasing levels of morning sickness that ravaged through her weakened—exploited body.

There was a vicious pulse elevating in her veins, rancid phantoms of anguish that seemed to clog torrents of blood—she felt the sudden chill ghosting in the stillness penetrating through the humid air—a merciless shadow of her stolen past that entrenched her during moments of vulnerability.

With each shaky step towards parked Harley Davidson, Natasha could feel the invisible hand of her demon slithering around her throat, fastening over her exposed skin and pinning her lithe body into the darkness.

That possessive touch was the reason she had been condemned to have a barren womb—she was betrayed and unwillingly forced to endure the procedure of having her humanity become stripped and threadbare of all her reserves of strength; it unravel with each prick of a needle that invaded her veins.

It was a degrading solution of creating emotionless and skilled hybrids of intelligence, obedience and resistance.

She wasn't used to feeling the clashes of muscle tension merging against her expanding abdomen; the recesses of her embroiled mind were plagued with constant surrender of thoughts that it was a risk of disobeying her lover's orders and engaging cross fire while being unprotected by Steve's indestructible shield—the reserves of his enhanced strength and moral guidance that always set her into the right direction, no matter which road she decided to take.

Clenching her jaw, Natasha effortlessly suppressed the fleeting visages of pain; her shaky hand grasped the strap of the backpack she'd left prompt against door—storing her necessary supplies for the mission that mostly contained packages of graham crackers, rice cakes and apple juice packs she had managed to salvage from Clint's fridge. She was efficiently prepared for traveling, even though her stomach gurgled ominously underneath her stealth uniform.

Breathing calmly helped her vent the surges of queasiness, Natasha carefully unzipped the backpack with slow ease, and intently found herself staring down at the dark blue Avenger's hooded sweater; her lithe fingers shakily clutched over the sleeve, as she lifted the sweater up to her nose and blissfully inhaled the heady, unbidden masculine scent lingering in the fabric.

She remembered aligning her lithe frame against the muscular planes of his back, feeling the heat inviting, daring her to lock herself fully into his embracing arms as the soft expanse of his lips made wet impressions of kisses underneath the bend of her jaw. She was safe. Untouched by the shadows, and fully aware of his unbreakable devotion merging against her heart.

Running had always lead her to escape from the truth in the matter of circumstances, but this time she wasn't alone on her unexpected journey. The weight of a blossoming new life was putting her down a different road—a path that wasn't easily chosen, but granted when she felt the fluttering vibrations of a strong pulse ripple inside the compacted layers of her protected, swollen womb.

It was her choice to follow him back onto the battlefield, to face the unavailing power of their stolen pasts and reclaim victorious redemption. The Black Widow stood by his side when the remnants of the battle scattered through the shafts of light, breaking through the darkness. This wasn't no different then what they faced as partners, fighters and lovers.

She refused to stand on the sidelines, and to allow the father of her unborn child to endure levels of pain and torment because the super-soldier distanced himself in order to protect his family: his burden of sacrifice.

* * *

{Flashback}

Steve was close to her, inadvertently standing by her side; august, stalwart and well reserved. They'd been separated from each other for a while—almost three months—taking different laborious roads, and gathering up scattered pieces of their stolen pasts.

Ultimately, it was Steve's choice to distance himself from her torturous world of cruelty and deception; the soldier in him respected the Black Widow's concealed motives of rectifying her virulent sins; regardless of how naturally concerned he was for her life.

He couldn't untangle himself from the invariable desires to claim the fullness of her rose tinted lips into a heatedly, wistful kiss; the variants of his choices kept him restricted from taking another risk with her.

So he remained stoic, underlying reason and stability for reclaiming levels of trust with the murderous, efficient siren of the Red Room; and he couldn't avoid a chance to unmask his devotion willingly to her, not when the recurring emptiness of his severed promise to Peggy still kept splinting his dormant, safeguarded heart with resistance to dare himself to move onward.

They were inside the Quinjet; recovering from a recon mission in Bolivia, the rays of the fading sunset pierced through entanglements of clouds, merging into a canvas of fuchsia and tangerine. Steve pretended that nothing was wrong, and took a few refreshing swigs of water to quench the dryness of his throat.

Remnants of dried blood solidified on his chiseled features, evidence of an intense combat and his crystalline—azure eyes severely focused on the sketch pad underneath his navy-blue helmet, fighting the urge to draw the barrage of images emanating from the disciplined recesses of his mind.

He tried to deal with his torment alone. He resisted the impulses to ravage her mouth with contact, assurance and heat. At the moment, Steve seemed fundamentally disturbed by the unsettled regrets and fractured promises that always resurfaced when he clung onto the interweaves of his past failures.

As Natasha shifted her vehement grayish eyes to the glass windows of the cockpit, she caught the obscuring veils of darkness approaching; glistening waves underneath the hovering jet captured reflections of the dimming sky. It felt like a chimera, nothing was absent and distant between them.

Heat wavered off his solid muscles, compacting against her rigid bones; a soothing elation sealed in her veins. Natasha became immobilized and trapped within his towering embrace of raw, enhanced power.

Nothing could have prevented the moment, there were no barriers to cross, just a daring contingent of reclaiming a purpose within the foundations built on the incomplex acts of their credence.

For some vague reason, Steve kept his inner reservations buried, his stowed desires were fastened under the assertive, stoic exterior of Captain America, but pain adhered in the deepness of his metallic turquoise eyes.

Before Natasha could break the silence with her teasing snark, an intense and unexpected flash of lightning crashed on the horizon; sonic booms of thunder defeated through masses of building clouds. She felt the power of the storm, vibrations and heat intermixed, and her arm intentionally brushed the star emblem of his carved pectorals as a violent gush of wind rattled the jet into the air streams, directing it through the eye of the tempest.

It was an empowering moment, Natasha fought against the wrangled—protesting—urge to invade his reserved thoughts, to relish control over the asylums of his stowed regrets. And she vaguely wondered if he was reclaiming untainted memories of his stolen past, beyond all the solid muscles and enhanced strength, she found a distant, broken man—a displaced soldier—chasing a regrettable promise that had been lodged into his fractured heart.

She detected all the signs—the oppressive silence that cast over his stoic and passive features; the wrenching guilt that made him surrender to delusion of failure, and the swell of tears building in the fathoms of his wintry-metallic stare. Each shade of blue held crescents of his laden pain that seemed almost unreachable. None of that sparked empathy to her, it when the dark embrace of solace raveled in his purest heart. Natasha couldn't look away, nor deny the uncanny stirrings of wanting to hold on through every second she deserved.

No matter how many times she tried, Natasha could never reveal the unbidden truth; she always came up with a rational excuse to keep her guard up, even though it seemed crippling to endure whenever she was close to him.

Feeling her unsettled stomach churn inevitably, Natasha had permitted her lips to press into distasteful grimace. Uncertainly vented in her heart, she felt suddenly off-balance; despite the driving force of impulse spiking in her chest. After taking in a few deep breaths; Natasha had collectively trained her grayish eyes at the chiseled and fierce presence of her observant and enigmatic partner: Captain Steven Rogers—the timeless soldier that never yielded from a fight. Something wavered over them, undetected to the obvious desire of taking a risk.

She was the Russian spider of a thousand lies and bullets of red—a marble encased siren that was meant to endure the absence of a man's love. She swallowed hard, pushing all doubt and chancing her deepest emotions.

"The storm's getting worse," she clarified, devising a suggestion while a deviant smirk crossed over her lips. "We could land on one of the islands and wait for it to pass. It's your call, Rogers."

Clenching the protesting muscle of his jaw, Steve dismissed her seductive purr, leveling his wary eyes on the thunderheads looming above them. After one breath, he parted his lips, and returned; detecting her undisclosed intentions.

"No, the jet is on autopilot," he whispered low and gravelly; refusing to meet her imploring stare."Besides, this Atlantic storm is nothing like what Thor does with his hammer." His lips slanted into a wry grin. "Now that's a lightning show."

"Always the spoiler of the party," Natasha retorted back sharply, Steve watched a dangerous glint become evident in her teal irises, and the Soviet spy knew that her tactics couldn't reckon with his nobility. Instead she stared at the discontent obscuring his intent focus. After releasing a few impatient breaths, she seized the advantage of unnerved opportune moment; alarmingly grasping his wrist, twisting his stiffen forearm into a possessive lock of submission. "I think you need to learn how to relax, soldier."

"Enough, Natasha," Steve dismissed tensely, the firmness in his voice dipped into a restrained growl and he wrenched his wrist from her avaricious hold. She had caught him off guard, and he was regressing against her imploring performance of seduction. "I'm not in the mood to play your games…" He spat, clenching his broad jaw obstinately, while he stood his ground against her.

Alarmed by her sudden impulse of dominance, Steve involuntarily took a step back, deciphering her next move as he looked skeptically between her and the visages of threatening weather, preparing to arm his heart again or trying to find a good enough ration to believe in their connected future.

It was a bit disconcerting.

The measure of subterfuge she exhibited left him guessing while the chicanery of her actions were distracting: confusion and discontent mounted against his chest, until he managed to draw out an addled sigh. "Why are you pretending again, Nat?" he asked with a softer edge dragging in his crisp Brooklyn drawl, while holding his penetrating gaze steady onto her masked emotions playing across her ivory features.

Natasha stared up at him, searching for the abated truth welled in his stern eyes."Why are you acting like this, Steve?" she rebuffed back.

He inhaled deeply, his demeanor revealed evidence of tainted remorse. Memories plagued his mind. His regarding eyes were gentle and refusing to give his pain an outlet.

"I dunno," he stiffened with nonchalance reeling himself away from her, Natasha watched his eyebrows crease into hardened lines, and his blue eyes steeled with an impassive gleam as he scouted for a resolve beyond his realms of pain. "It hasn't been easy on me these last few months." He admitted sincerely, bowing his head down, and drew out a wavering, abashed breath. "Sometimes I just can't focus straight."

He gave her a faint dissatisfied grimace, sealing his lips tight and he was breathing through his nostrils. He had to find another reason to follow Nick Fury's shadow, but lately he was plagued with too much unsettled, torturous regrets. He wanted a guiltless release, an unbidden chance for freedom without the dark shroud of his past mistakes pinning him down.

"You know it's kinda hard following orders without knowing what exactly I'm fighting for…It's not freedom or peace…I'm just cleaning up another man's mistakes." The smooth edges of his lips curved into a doubtful frown. As he held her gaze even, Natasha swiftly averted her irritated focus back to the gloaming clouds. After clearing his throat, Steve invaded her drifting thoughts and asked his simple question in a slow, contained breath, "Do you trust, Fury?" he asked, with a firmness dipping in his tone.

Natasha remained leveled in her defenses; avoidance pricked in her veins. She attempted to block out the urgency in his voice, but something cut deep as memories that she had pushed into the chasms of her mind threatened to betray her with cyclones of regrets and nightmarish images of having needles and machines extract every piece of her innocence and recreate her existence into a dangerous, untamed, and enslaved demon that was destined to do terrible things to good people.

Unfathomable emotions stirred inside Natasha; harboring thoughts lulled her back to the defining moment of facing the soul carbon truth etched against layers of unsettled regrets. For days, she eluded herself from the unbridled compromise of her emotions; shadows veiled over her; awakening of agony grew into a paramount test of her endurance, refusing to offer an opening to expose her impending confessions.

Discontentment rippled in her bones, she forced a deviant smirk across her lips; tension grappled her closer to him, dangerously parallel, and Natasha became caught in the moment, equality staring intensely into the fierce and calm hues of azure. They claimed a risk to remain unadulterated while everything fell into an array of spiraling desires, expunging her rations to keep distant when she dared to peer deep and beyond the purity of his stalwart, chiseled visage of strife and authority.

Rebellion glinted in her aphonic eyes, Steve didn't understand the penalty she had paid to seek atonement for her relentless sins; Nick Fury offered her repentance, giving the Widow a second chance to prove that monsters could be reverted back to their humanity.

"Nick Fury is a good man, Steve," Natasha declared in a firm defense, regarding him with her fervent teal eyes, trying to divert the emboldened sentiment in her raspy tone. "Mind you, that he does have his secrets, but at the end of the day, the world is spared from another threat because he keeps both eyes open."

Steve scoffed, looking affronted; after a momentary lapse of silence, the still arch of his lips degenerated into scowl, a taunt grimace of dejection. He barred his emotions from her invasive motives; keeping his azure eyes steady on the devious obscurity captured in her eyes.

Raving fire tore in his veins, a blaze of discontent spread across the muscle planes of his heaving chest. Lightning broke through the red canvas of cloud, reflecting the stillness of his eyes, and his heart felt laden as stone.

Immobilized by the reoccurrence of his doubts, Steve listened to the silent accord, the somber percussion of a pulse against ice encased was driving himself back into the abyss, turning away from the reproach of reverential strength to given into the variants of his raw desires to face her, without the incorruptible mantle of Captain America, the insurmountable burdens weighing him down.

"Secrets," Steve held back a dry seethe ragging up his throat; fastening his hands into restricted fists; the skin layered over his knuckles faded into a dull white. His stormy blue orbs flashed with intensity, red lightning coursed in his veins.

The haunting and deaden face of his best friend scraped against the forefront of his mind, convicting him with throes of guilt as he tried to hasten the storm within.

For a single moment, he was drawn back to the conjuring of hate rippling into the pale wintry eyes of Bucky, a feral phantom of HYDRA's merciless tortures; tortures which sentenced an honorable, good soldier into life of screaming, vacant shadows and following the bloody footprints of his targets.

Steve was barely adjoined with her stare, the sharp edge of his jaw flexed a hollowed as he wrenched with a enraged jerk, recalling vexed memories with cynical precision. "Fury kept the most important truth hidden from me..." he admitted in a hoarse growl, fighting against the intrusion of solace."My best friend never went home. His life was stolen because I never tried to search for him when the SSR had Zola in custody... I—" He swallowed a lump in his throat, "I failed him."

"Enough with the guilt trip, Steve," Natasha leveled, attempting to roll her eyes. "What happened to James Barnes wasn't your fault. Sometimes we have no victory, but it doesn't mean you have to live in his shadow."

Steve stifled a disconcerting frown. "You don't know what I've lost," he berated her. He tried to look away, but the phantoms of his regrets prevented him. His gaze never wavered off of her.

Staring intensely into his azure eyes, Natasha became engrossed, searching a way inside and unabashedly stole a glance at his gloved fingers obstinately coiled over the plastic surface of the water bottled, but his reserved emotions seemed transparent. It was a childish game to believe in false hope and reveal something undeniable—unconfirmed when the complex darkness and legacy of the Black Widow had been stripped away.

"What? Do you think the world goes dark just because of a few debts of your failures?" Natasha surmised, indifferently with an indistinct edge in her voice that barely held reverence.

Steve dismissed an audible grunt, regarding a weighted stare back at the shield. It was customary to adapt; regrets were attachments—distractions that held everything back on a mission. Throughout the hardships of her other life time, Natasha refused to embrace a conventional life; spending days trapped in lapses of memory in order to survive without feeling her skin become encased with ice.

There had been moments when Natasha wondered how Ivan became so invested with sparing her life from the harsh Russian winter; removing her frail and sickly existence from the vacant streets; and gave her inhumane purpose to serve the will of the KBG-becoming a ghost agent. She was a utilized weapon of obtaining mastery and succession that was granted whenever she fired the gun—despite her reluctance to obey General Karpov's orders.

_'Remember your training. Kill and don't ask questions.'_

"Before I was recruited into S.H.I.E.L.D's ranks, I used to do business that would require getting rid of evidence of protective details involving the mission," she evoked out a breath, despite the bitterness coiling in her veins.

The coldness of her teal eyes was unwavering, observing him closely, almost inspecting all his grievances he eluded into the cold ambiance of his negligence. "It was never about steadying down and seeing the world the way many see it every day. I wasn't permitted to enjoy the simple things...I followed orders and completed my objectives."

She shrugged nonchalantly, not removing her scrutiny from the stillness of his pained blue eyes. Coyness shadowed over the fullness of her claret lips, but Steve was still unresponsive towards her, intently staring at the red paint of his shield; absent and trapped in a distant void, using the elements around them as a distraction of avoidance. "I guess I should have looked in other directions."

Subduing her dominant impulses, Natasha released a frustrated sigh and promptly continued, with a distinctive husky edge in her voice. "It feels real to me...This life...Well, at least the trust issue part of it."

Feeling his final assault of unadulterated regression, Steve affixed a dismal resolve at her concerned look. "Sometimes you can't turn back," he said, narrowing down at her left hand, noticing a patch of marred scarring around her wrist as she removed her glove. A branded symbol of the traumatic and nightmarish experiences she had underwent in prisons of the Red Room. He felt his heart clenched, he was on the verge of falling into the utmost of despair; a cold wave of regret clashed against him, but still he remained guarded.

"Are you talking about that first practiced kiss, lover boy?" she asked, encompassing her words with a tentative—uncharacteristic edge. Surely, there was more depth in his admission, back in those silent moments where the pocketed afterglow of a sunset half-caressed his angular face. Natasha detected that his heart seemed avulsed with unseen pain. Taking the opportunity to deliver the right amount of questioning, she met his stare before he could counter out a protest. "It must've meant something to you, since you clearly don't want to talk about it."

His towering stance resumed pliant, dissonant rumbles of thunder vibrated through the interior of the jet, as he drew out even, inaudible breaths. Natasha watched his brow crease with engraved lines. His whole demeanor changed in the instant as he became ensnared with the unexplained force of mounted grief. The images replaying in his mind created awful feelings—abated from shattered promises and rushes of venting frustration.

The deep, unexpected kiss he'd shared with Peggy Carter on the runway invaded the conjures of his thoughts; the softness of a steady rhythmical pace was just a taste of what love could have been; he remembered every surging moment-_ time around them had accelerated and froze as he drifted into another world. He was staring evenly into her depthless brown eyes looking steady into his stern gaze with unrestrained desire; he almost caught his breath; Peggy made a graceful effort to reach his lips._

_Feeling inexplicably, and naturally close to her, Steve fought against the frantic pace of hesitance, his heart skipped a few beats when he gripped onto his reservations. He could feel the temperate pulse of her desperation, swallowing breathes had bated out of his mouth and tangible fire rushed in his blood. He felt so weightless—unsteady—when Peggy smiled beautifully at him._

_There were no crushing mulls of doubt that could keep him from_ _capturing a real, enthralling moment with his best girl. Steve needed to kiss her, to prove to his barred heart that love could spear right through it. Stillness made a reproach over his guarded emotions, and he looked tentatively down at her,_ _timid and uncertain, if he had the right to claim her beautiful, waiting lips._

_All it took was a leap of faith to give into the breathless moment,_ _Peggy gripped onto his chest hostler strap; and Steve felt a_ _momentarily lapse of hesitance, the sharp edge of his square jaw instantly clenched as he slowly withdrew to angle his head down, the arch of his lips enveloped hers with a tentative caress over the fullness of her ruby lips. _

_A heated sense arose in his veins and he relished the igniting sensation of her breath ghosting over his urging mouth; temperate swell of his lips made blissful contact with hers in the moment he turned away from fear, and his breathing slowed, gentle pressure merged into a monumental embrace of unforgettable equal love._

_Steadiness witted in his chest, Steve remained motionless, breath hitched into soft moans as he fully absorbed the decant taste of her, feeling the softness of her lips dance with shivery pulses that outmatched spent moments they shared with an empowering kiss until the mission called him back._

_He broke away, with slow reluctant motion; his lips hovered over her skin as the hardness of his helmet pressed against her forehead. A knife in the heart, that's the only way to describe what he felt before he slipped away from Peggy. He whispered out a small order, hotly against the expanse of her contented lips. "Wait for me..."_

"Two minutes," he finally hitched out in a despondent whisper, trying to compose himself. "That's how much time I had to say the things I wanted Peggy to hear...It wasn't enough. Just my stupid way of easing her pain when I went under," he confessed, brokenly.

"Well, maybe you should go to her and finish that message," she offered, gently. "It's never too late to fix your mistakes. I feel like if you don't say those words to Agent Carter, you're sort of surrendering to your pain, am I right?"

"I dunno," he returned evenly, his wavering voice laced with unmasked bereavement. "Peggy...She was my..." His blue eyes averted back to the road, and his mused expression wore a diminished semblance; rawness scraped against his throat, he swallowed thickly. "It just doesn't feel deserving enough to go through with it. Years are against us, and Peggy is not the same woman I loved back in 1945. She's reaching a point where I can't be there to save her."

"Somehow I get the feeling you already did, Rogers..." Natasha confirmed, in a softer, more moderated tone of understanding. It felt ineffectual to summon a measure of empathy to form a tender smile that wasn't overshadowed with coldness.

Natasha effortlessly lifted her hand over his star emblem, and stole another dismal glance at the white embedded link of deep scarring encircled over her wrist. Feeling groundless in her own right was an abnormal sensation, she wasn't a revisionist—a dreamer to rebuild broken down structures—walls.

She had survived years as a victim of transgressions, depending on her skill-set and combat training to maintain self-preservation while chasing her demons.

For two missions, she had used Steve as an anchor to pull her out of tempests, never giving him anything in return. Love wasn't real, as it was evidently serving as a fetal—clandestine—distraction between them. Captain America and the Black Widow were polar opposites.

Natasha never blinked; stillness locked onto matching sincere gaze of his unwavering azure became captives in a duel of unspoken confessions. As soon, Steve reached the rifts of her heart, there was a impenetrable force blocking his love—he didn't give up, not on her, nor himself.

With a strong pulse of his heart, Steve reasoned with his restricted desires. He parted his lips, irregular paces of breath hitched in his chest. He flashed his gaze to the wind shield, staring intently at the mundane patterns of ice frosted over the plane of glass. He could taste the sweat sloping over the arch fullness of his lips.

Swallowing down a lump in his throat, he fought against the reservations, he felt off balance, almost surrendering to gravity. Tonight, he wasn't listening to the soldier logic that usually spun his moral compass; for one moment, he wanted to lay down his shield and fully embrace her, not as a dream, but as flesh and blood—a woman that was meant to be loved by an earnest benevolent man who needed to learn how to dance.

Everything felt groundless, Steve used her warmth as an anchor; clinging onto her beauty as his unfrayed life-line. "Nat," he finally said, in a low hesitant breath. He didn't want to resort to desperation, he had to keep the pace tentative and focus on her. With a slow reach of his hand, he gripped her shoulder with feathered weight; and tenderly stared into her unreadable gaze. "Would you...Uh...I mean...Did you have someone you considered as your right partner?"

Intrigued by his forward—effective approach to gain her attention, Natasha quirked an eyebrow up, waiting for him to babble on like a schoolboy asking his favorite crush for a date. It seemed childish, but she played along, even though she felt the spark of connection between them.

With an even breath, she curved her lips into a surly grin, knowing he intentionally diverted his true intentions of asking her out on a date.

"In the Red Room, where I was trained to become the monster I am today, one sleeper agent became my mentor for a few years of my enrollment. He gave me a chance to prove strength to my fellow classmates. In the end, I discovered that it was a childish game, and that he never belonged to me."

Every lash that struck her body, gave her a surge of defiance—power against the agonizing brutally that marked her skin. With her failures, she adapted, craving for the taste of blood to drown her lungs as her teachers whittled away pieces of humanity, infusing the ruthless lust of a hardcore killer, that never doubted her resilience, and utilized the methods ingrained in her to reach succession: performance, mastery, drive and resistance.

However, her impulses of rage never lasted; not when the silent wraith entered her space, and brought her down to a pitiful level of dissemblance and subordination.

He was ruthless, brutal and relentless with his attacks. His methods were elusive and lethal.

The butchers called him 'James'; he adopted that name when he was thawed out from the ice coffin, and placed into an isolation chamber until his voice drained out of him. It was a method of torture. He was mute and obedient to every command programmed within the binary codes of his disassembled mind. In other words, he was a hollow semblance of a nameless man. A senseless weapon created for the purpose to destroy and obey.

Within the next months, James had become her mentor and partner on covert missions of infiltration, assassinations and interference with data mining.

She became the venomous weaver of KBG—the infamous Black Widow, an efficient spy who killed her prey with rounds of bullets and wire.

Through the harsh relents of her training, Natasha became a symbol of death in the hearts and minds of Russia; and her fame granted her power against international threats. And James had developed a new identity after receiving a new weapon—a metallic alloy arm that had replaced his old plastic and steel limb. It was forged in the molten heart of HYDRA, and attached to the marred and detached skin of his left shoulder.

It was inorganic, but he learn how to control every movement of its contortion, and after a few terminations, a red star was painted on the chrome plating. A symbol of his willed alliance with his new masters: General Karpov, Aleksander Lukin, and Yuri Brushov.

Natasha narrowed her gaze at the white remnants of scarring reflecting in the caress of pale light. "He never belonged to anyone." A streak of red flashed in the stillness of her teal eyes, resolving into a symbol of the Soviet star branded on polished alloy. Menacing, steely blue eyes faded into the whiteness. Dead and frozen.

_"Natalia, it's only me," He spoke in a low timber, his straining voice held an American drawl, urgency was evident in his words. He was dangerously close to her, barely a shadow against her exposed skin._

_Carefully his chrome fingers graced through her vibrant russet curls; and obscurity welled in his azure eyes held regarded contempt against the betrayal that was embedded on her skin. He didn't expect her to forgive him, not even whisper his true name. All he wanted was a chance to stare into her alluring eyes once again. _

_"You need to relax." He implored, brushing his lips, full and urging to claim her again as his dance partner for the next sparring match. The coldness of his digits stroked over her jawline, almost making her dormant. "They've done somethin' to the others...You have to get out, Natalia."_

_"I can't leave," Natalia returned evenly in a low wince, implying her fate. She lifted her arm to reveal the marred indention of the handcuffs. "If I run, they will terminate me and the other Black Widows of my class." _

_She looked away, drawing out a shaky exhale, and didn't falter in her poised stance."I refuse to watch their necks be snapped for something that they never did because of my selfish choice of action to ensure freedom."_

_"General Kaprov will terminate you no matter what choice you follow, Natalia," he seethed in throaty response; his jaw settled into a sharp clench. "You can't fight for them...They are not your friends and wouldn't respect your choice." _

_The amount of concern in his voice reverberated with a haunting edge. "You're not a name in the ranks, just an empty pair of cuffs hanging on a bed post. They will extract what is needed, and then leave you to bleed out in the cold."_

_Natalia felt her heart rate climbing, listening to thumps of heavy boots emanating from the corridor. Time crept as a slow descent ache elevated in her chest; they both shared an equal gaze. She edged closer to the door, with graceful ease, while feeling drained of energy. "I am not defective," she objected, settling her teal eyes at her scarred wrist. "My name will not go unnoticed in the ranks. They can extract all the blood they need out me, but I will still fight to live."_

_James glanced down at his metal hand, which squeezed into a fist. "I don't want to pull the trigger on you," he confessed in a heavy pant. His hauntingly blue eyes resisted to stare at his holstered weapon attached to his belt. _

_Swallowing against a slosh of bile, he breathed, holding back the grim truth of the disciplinary orders he unwillingly executed when he received his orders."You're very different than the other girls, Natalia, they didn't dance well."_

_Her eyes widened in horror. "You?" she gasped breathless, feeling her throat seizing up, and the complexion of her skin grew sallow. It was hard to fathom that her only friend was the one responsible for almost fifteen deaths. "It was you that put bullet holes into their heads? That left them to bleed on the stage floor?" James bowed his head, lengthy chestnut tresses of his disheveled hair shadowed his chiseled face; he pressed his lips into a hard grimace, having betrayed her trust."Kaprov gave you the orders to extract them from the ranks."_

_"Like you, Natalia, I had no choice." he receded a step back, and then he reluctantly administered the cold truth to her, rolling up his uniform's sleeve, and allowed her to stare at the punctured holes in his wrist. "I never wanted to execute his orders, but he injected me with somethin' and I couldn't resist his commands."_

_Tears gathered in his blue eyes, as James reached out his hand to cup her face. "If you follow that bastard, he will destroy you. So please get out of here..." He caressed his gloved knuckles over the curve of her jaw, an assuring touch of his devotion to her. "Go find a good man who you can trust and allow him the honor of loving you," he said gently, confirming his abandonment of her."You've gotta blank everything out—run and don't look back."_

_In those impulsive moments, Natalia stared up at him, unable to force out words that didn't trail after a clogging sob. His defensive posture didn't relent and his boyish face became impassive as she watched the endearing light in his eyes diminish into hollow malice that was ingrained in his veins._

_Refining her trust in him, she encompassed her hand on his smooth edged cheek, her fingers wove through his unruly locks and watched his glacial eyes center on her lips. Feeling the coils heat of his solid body radiate through her, Natalia became fearless, granted she was soon to live a condemned walk in the shadows, but it was chance to reclaim a life without pain and availing nightmares; it was vestiges of poisoned red._

_Heat rippled in her heart until coldness doused it. "I can't do this, not risking a few more lives. I don't deserve freedom." she protested with spite, reining back from him. "I know that I have no place in this world."_

_James gripped her shoulders, firmly, steadying her against the wall. "You only think that because of the pain they inflict when you fail to reach success in their ranks. You do have a place in this world, but if you stay in this hell, it will be a grave."_

_He glared down at her, hitching up heavy breaths, and she couldn't fight him. She was pinned against the hardness of his sculpted torso with sturdy force that kept her immobilized in those few seconds of stillness. _

_Natalia wanted him to remember the moment, no torturous obligations or scars; just him and her together for a final time before the darkness consumed them both."What will happen to you if I decide to run?" she asked, fixing her eyes at alloy plates adorned with the red star."You can run with me...We can live_—_"_

_"I'm already dead, Natalia," he admitted with grief edging in his soothing tone, accepting the truth interlacing with those hollow words. He tilted his head, angling the softness of his lips, and left a kiss on her clammy forehead, breathing in the wafting scent of her body and Natalia felt a repulse animating in her chest, a silent accord of desire that placed value on those years they shared together on the sparring mats and outside the walls of the theater. _

_She couldn't deny her love for him, but he had to push her away—to save her from sharing his sentenced fate as an assassin_—_turned_ _into a_ _cold blooded monster with no humanity left to rip out. He meant to say those to her in a mournful confession._

_Even as she listened to the pain wavering in his voice, Natalia found herself at a standstill of choice._

_Weaves of sentiment gave her a dream to hold a little girl, to teach her daughter how to twirl and to never become afraid of nightmares, but her accepting grief whittled that invalid dream away; tainting her desires with ingrained impulse to kill people that had their own story to tell, but the Black Widow offered them no audience._

_She had been viewed as a demon, tormented by succession of continuous sins. And that was to become her fated legacy; to adapt to a chained life wearing the mark of Russia._

_Red morphed into a semblance of the brutalized trauma she endured, when Ivan gave her a purpose away from the cold and desolate streets of Stalingrad_—_through the deals he bargained with the devil, he had__ forsaken her to the ranks of the Red Room, betraying her trust and selling her unwilling soul for a price to settle his own debts. It wasn't the deserving freedom that she wanted, just prestige of __enslavement._

_"Tell me something," she used a pitch of unnerved abruptness in her discontented voice; utilizing her words to recall his precise attention in those last moments they were granted to share. _

_With gentle effort of her splaying hand, she flattened her palm on the left side of his rigid chest; feeling a strong pulse of his restricted heartbeat setting against her possessive fingers. It was still active, blood still flowed in his veins. "If you're really dead, than why can I still feel a pulse?" she beseeched, remotely considering to devour his lips into a feverish melding kiss of surrendering passion._

_Alarmed by the sudden approach of tolerating sentiment, James relented a step away from her desperate touch; inwardly battling against the undeviating urges to claim her lips, his paled blue irises held a distant and permitted gleam, but the tangled interweaves of his strained emotions refused to discard truths from her._

_He couldn't become compromised by attachment, regardless what the embossed layers of his damaged heart held; it was an undulating choice that made him feel as if he was bleeding inside._

_"Natalia," he whispered in a cautious hitch of his monotone; aiming his daunting steely eyes on the door opening, until a shadowy figure blocked the haze of light. Blood chilled down his body. The nefarious reproach of dread echoed in the recess of his altered mind as gloved hands seized Natalia with violent possession. The glint of needle a shimmered over her exposed, ashen skin. "Run," he growled fiercely, his voice dying into the coiling fog of heavy dosages of sedative which had started to filter through the air vent. Inhaling a lungful made his wobbling stance surrender to gravity._

_Watching James' body crash to the floor, through the apex of pain, Natalia clenched her jaw, unhinged, releasing a low seethe; until a trickle of blood aimlessly slid out of her nostril. Whirls of her thoughts became concussed, the world spun until the needle reached her pulsing vein."Leave him alone," she commanded in a snarling protest; her fingernails clawed into a handler's arm with a feral slash._

_"Rebellion is not permitted in our ranks, Tsnarina!" Karpov barked at her with a harsh volume of authority in his voice, he obstructed her view of the doorway. Sensing his ruthless surge of dominance, Natalia falsified an unwavering stance of resisting defiance, not blanching as the cruel name of her ancestry intermixed with his spite. "You have disobeyed my orders, маленькая принцесса!"_

_It was a branding of revolution, on the night she survived the inferno, her nine-year old self hid under the smoldering ruin of the Tsar's palace; a shelter where she had felt most welcomed, almost like she belonged in the shadow of the Empress-Alexandra. Her late mother had told her stories about the royal-most despised family of Russia, and the betrayal that stained the steps during the riots and holocausts of fire._

_The family name was defiled, the bloodline existed in the two children whose bodies were uncovered; it was possible that the last remnants of their blood sustained._

_"Your corpse will be thrown into the fire, along with the remains of your dead father."_

_Ivan. He was threatening to desecrate her surrogate-untruthful guardian. He saved her from being executed at the palace walls, where her parents wore black bags over their heads and bullets pierced their chests._

_Looking down at James' limp_—_immobilized frame obscured by the general's looming shadow, Natalia felt the potent urge to retaliate against his will, to prove to her handlers that she was strong enough to fight for her right of freedom_—_she wouldn't submit; not when a pulse still resided in her misused body. "Do not speak to me about Ivan," she hissed in an irate breath, fastening her hand into an effectual fist. "I know where he belongs...I'm just waiting to put you in that place, _монстр!"

_Karpov released an unaffected laugh_. "_Brave words, my Tsnarina," he spoke as if he owned her, not a daughter or student, but a fragile possession to easily break with simple commands._

_ "You see, we're all monsters in this hell. Some of us have discipline to control the rages of hunger, while others with their wretched defiance fail to commit to it, but you are a dancer of precision. Your body is a weapon that will be used to eliminate those who have defiled our motherland. If you chose to disobey, you will be eliminated. Do you understand?"_

_For that predictable moment, Natalia involuntarily stared into his dark, soulless eyes. Mustering up an objection against his order, twinged in her aching throat. Her body absently rejected to become a dehumanized and scarred drone that most of her classmates had been converted into through sessions of brainwashing and chemical, electronic manipulation; but it was out of her control._

_Vivid flashbacks of girls who reeked of exhaustion, collapsing on the stage, crossed through her mind; they were dragged away screaming apathetically for their parents to save them and then everything would grow silent until shots echoed in the vast corridor, and body bags were stationed at the furnace. James was the gunman—the executioner who had filled their weakened bodies with untraceable slugs of lead._

_At one time, she had considered James as her guardian angel, not a ghost who entreated red shadows, but a form of trust which she salvaged throughout the enduring sessions of her core training. Everything was unraveling; Karpov did not value life, just succession that granted him-dominance and control over a vacant army of marble soldiers._

_Breathing in the poisoned air didn't affect her senses, the odorless compound was irregular to her system that wouldn't place her into a comatose state. Natalia became aware of the measure of precautions the raven bearded General was taking; rampant thoughts surged in her mind when she dared an availing look down at the murderous phantom that wore the visage of a dismayed man- Зимний солдат...the Winter Soldier._

_Natalia closed her eyes, and submitted to evolution of tolerance, his gloved hand abrasively twisted her arm into a vise grip, exposing the plump vein for injection. Torrents of liquid scraped against her bones, she would endure it, but the pain drove into the marrow and blood couldn't deny scorching tendrils consuming her veins. "Yes, sir," she eventfully answered him in a croak; emotionless and absent from warmth. "I understand."_

* * *

"Natasha," his deep reserved baritone anchored her back, before reluctance spread to life. Releasing a shaky exhale, Natasha awoke with an automatic jerk, connective heat merged against her tensed muscles when his arm snaked carefully around her jutting hip bones; securing her lithe frame snug against him.

She gazed blearily at him as the visions blotted away, unresponsive to the alarming sense of need throbbing in her chest. An errant tear slid down her cheek, balance faltered to a surrender of prevented her from touching the grated ramp beneath their boots. "It's alright," he promised genuinely, in a breathless yet certain voice. "I've got you, Tasha."

In that attaching moment of unexpected comfort, the undeniable trust Natasha permitted disposed hazardous urges to flee, and she wasn't tangled up on faults, but steady and shielded by a close embrace of what her opposing instincts considered as love. No more gaps, limitations or rational excuses to claim resistance.

She couldn't master enough control to abate the foreign stirrings, control has always been her weapon to utilize during situations. She never felt torn apart, unstable with her choices. It was a bit disarming, to feel a touch of freedom that wasn't deserved.

The devoid of ghosts still prevented her from living—the Winter Soldier had her blood on his hands, and inexorably belonging to him just like the untraceable bullet of his that she kept on her shelf in her studio apartment. If he ever aimed at Steve again, she would retire him with that same bullet.

"I suppose I owe you again," she said eventually, pivoting on her heels into a graceful balletic spin, fitting her trim stature against his torso. The smell of dampness and sweat lingered on his blemished skin, seams of his uniform had come undone, revealing faint redden gashes on the compacted muscle of his biceps. The intrusion of his body heat pressed against her, penetrating through sore limbs as their adjoining symmetry formed a swell of acceptance.

The Black Widow was unnervingly disarmed; there was no impulse to fight. The desire had become unadulterated solidifying euphoria fueled with a chemical burst of liquid fire. The interior of the jet was darkening around them, streaks of lightning flickered into the depth of his azure eyes, still and electrifying, as she counted silently for dissonance of thunder to match the friction in the humid air.

The grayness in her eyes held the fierce energy of the storm as her resolve centered on his full arched lips; his chiseled boyish features, stoic and defining. Her fingers splayed over his chest, relishing to feel his bare and raw muscles pulsate with feverish heat. "We have some time to practice," she offered, a seductive convey of a whisper, soothingly glided over his jaw. She held his tensed-addled stare; waiting for him to break out of his dormant stance. "Since you do need it."

"I get the feelin' that you already had this planned out," he retorted in a long breath, defenses arose, as he intently watched her lips bleed into variants of a purposeful—effective smirk of eclipsed succession. He didn't budge; remaining grounded with his limits, and cast a hooded intent gaze at her. Refusing to subject himself into her web was the only way to hold his guard.

Temptation was intimate, a raving clash of thoughtless decision and surges of impulsive momentum. Peggy still enthralled his mind; he couldn't just submit his vulnerable heart to Natasha, not when it was barred to the commitment of rekindling his promise.

"I'm gonna to have to take a rain check, Natasha." He was wary fool, isolating himself yet again from an opportunity to really live. "I finally know what I need to do when we land back at Avenger's Tower—Peggy is waiting for me," He receded a step; his eyes gained a resolute look, seconding the thought. "I intend to finish our dance."

Steve composed himself reverently, moving to one of the hard seats, and eased his weight down. His catatonic demeanor held a display of rampant emotions, briefly— after a moment of being a captive in oppressive silence, and shrugging off the dull ache lingering in his body; he discarded the top of his torn uniform.

With a swift yank off his broad chest and arm, he threw it over the shield.

His unkempt blond tresses hung over his forehead, obscuring crescents of luminous azure of his narrowing eyes.

He scarcely regarded her, copper ringlets formed around her ivory face, shadowing the freckles on her cheeks and her alluring teal eyes matched his own as they searched for a untainted legible reason to prove to their doubting hearts.

"The funny thing is, I don't know how to dance," he admitted sheepishly. Despondence crept in his voice, and his lips flattened into an ashamed grimace. Movies were his private gateway to learn, old and new films that Sam collected in stacks of thinned disks back in Washington. Timidly his fingers carted through his blond locks. "I wouldn't even know how to start..."

Sensing the ache of incompleteness pooling inside his veins, it became understandable to her rebelling and embezzled spirit. Steve was divided from the people he loved; the important and meaningful parts of his old life were ruined by a hero's sacrifice and a soldier's honor to complete the mission.

Though Steve wouldn't reveal it, he seemed to believe that only hopelessness waited for him in the future.

Peggy was reaching the end of her terminal stage of bone cancer; she lived a fulfilling life and changed the world with Howard Stark and a loyal bio-chemist engineer named Hank Pym. It was a rewarding life, granted with small victories, but the core truth of her inviolable strength remained in the fractured heart of Captain America—the Brooklyn kid who gave his everything to ensure that she would embrace his legacy of rebuilding a better tomorrow. Steve had been her guiding compass that never steered her into the wrong direction.

Natasha climbed over the seat, contorting her slender body against the cold steel wall, and then wrapped her arms over his ample back, encompassing her reserves of bodily warmth over exposed areas of his exhausted and strained muscles. "I can teach you some moves."

The gravity of her elusive words speared him deep, irritated by the encroaching approach of her insisting motives; Steve shot up to his full height and strode to the back of the ramp, muscular bulge of his arm flexed as he pressed against the metal frame, emboldened with restrictive thoughts of taking another risk.

"I'm not ready for the next step, Natasha," his confession stumbled out of his throat, ragged and distressing. "I apologize for the misdirection I gave to you, but this is all new to me, and I don't wanna ruin something that is meant for greatness." His somber eyes held an amending gleam as he glanced back, having full effect on her. "If you really want to share a dance, then let me take the lead."

Natasha enclosed their distance, standing dangerously close to him. She became transfixed in the flaring rim of azure engulfed by darkness of a feverish storm in his eyes.

She felt the pulsing heat of his solid chest merge into her bones; pooling the iciness in her veins with a surge of his enhanced strength. It was lethal and compromising. She resisted the urge to assault his full lips—he needed to feel again. "You're inexperienced..."

Steve groaned out a faint protest of negligence, the cleaving knife once again puncture his heart, extracting and numbing. _Will it be worth it, Steve? _He heard Peggy's soft voice replaying in his thoughts, forcing him to withdraw, Natasha blurred as he lost all focus on the moment and delved back into the past.

"What brought this on?" he inquired, unknowingly, a whisper was all he managed to say. He need to restrict himself from accepting the chance to desperately plunge into her urging mouth. His body screamed to remove himself, to find another distraction, but the choices of his heart kept him weighted down. Natasha wouldn't let him move away-retreat-he was losing the battle-surrendering to full extent of his the olden guilt.

The contact of their bodies was tense, but she pinned him against her, giving him a chance to experience a taste of fire without drifting back into the past. Natasha held onto him, using him as an anchor to grasp if she drowned sea of red, their bodies joined into interlock of trust and the utmost of devotion. She wanted to give him everything that was alive in her; she wanted to feel every part of him set ablaze against her exposed skin. Faint halos of interior light caressed over his bare chest planes—his silver plated dog tags hung over the dip of his engraved pectorals, and his youthful skin aglow in strikes of lightning.

The Captain was her captive; he fully surrendered his noble and vigilant heart to her unspoken desires, and allowed her hands to mold him into a new man. She lined up against his bulky frame, feeling his muscles tense with hesitation.

This was the first time they shared themselves—all barriers were crossed and tension was thick in the humid air. She rested her chin on his shoulder, scarlet ringlets cascaded over his bicep and the square curve of his pronounced jaw; his skin heated as her lips were just a breath away from claiming his mouth.

"Will you save me if I drown?" she asked, with a low and definitive tone, her full lips ghosting over his neck; she took his pulse in the second that his calm and reverent breath was a given response.

It wasn't enough to numb the overwhelming torrents of guilt—the abhorred sins that she tried to bury deeper and erase the leverage that marked onto her each time she had pulled the trigger. It was always the balance of power and control, no sentimental value could weigh her condemning past.

When she looked into his eyes, staring into the ocean of azure, she felt obliged to ask the dismal question that had been leaden on her heart. In one steady breath, she met his benevolent, piercing stare and leveled her face with him, but the urge to run again grew potent. "Do you trust me enough to save you if you fall?"

"Nat," Steve whispered, no hesitation evident in his low voice. His rough fingers caressed the bare skin over her forearm, soothing and endearing, but he didn't grasp the tensed muscle, or forced her down. He detected her pain, and even tried to search for the nightmares that consumed her thoughts when she became reserved and silent. He was meeting her half-way between the past and the future. He wasn't going to let her slip away—not into the blood pooling abyss of the Red Room.

When Steve braved a gaze into her obscured teal eyes, his lips curved into a weak smile, but his blue eyes were full of anguish, resentment and they beseech her for security of her undeniable love and trust.

"Nat, I trust you." His voice was clear and held the authoritative firmness of Captain America. It seemed that his confession stretched into oblivion, nothing felt reformed between them: no stability or untainted were balancing their emotions, choices and commitment to the mission.

To break the tension, Steve lifted her hand to his face, and dropped his soft lips over her bruised knuckles, feeling her pulse move against the gentle, reverent coaxes of his urging mouth hovering over her scars. "You're the only one that can guide me back if I do cross a line and can't find a reason to return."

It was hard for her to process those words.

This was their freedom and his chance to finally allow her to embrace his scarred heart. Natasha emitted a even breath, meeting his tender gaze of icy blue, she was full of acceptance and no surges to fight back. She allowed him to have control of the moment. She looped her arms over the back of his thick neck with tactical precision; and caressed her lips in slow, possessive motion over his shoulder, leaving a smears of red on the heated skin.

As she mashed herself against his torso, she mustered enough patience to allow him to start dance with a bang."Well, what are you waiting for, Rogers… To the lead," she enticed, against his squared jaw.

A ravenous impulse overtook him, and Steve unleashed a fierce growl, filled with unyielding determination and seized her slender body with might of his enhanced strength holding her firm and crashed their lips together into breathless pace. He locked his lips into her mouth, sealing the air supply with wet heat, forcing her lips to roll with unbreakable passion.

His eyes fluttered shut in sheer ignition of blissful ecstasy, her long tresses of hair cascaded over his flushed skin as he melted into her mouth, plunging deeper into fathoms of her devotion.

Tears dripped from his eyes, and streaked over her face as they kissed and dissolved into the wavering heat engulfing over their bodies. He knew nothing would separate them as their skin merged with their clothing and hearts pounded with intense climactic rhythm.

All air had been emptied from her lungs, Natasha felt her chest ached with a coils of vise throbbing as as her mouth melted under the swell of Steve's plush lips, intensity rapidly consumed them, blood and serum rushed in their veins, breath hitched and his hands danced idly down her curves.

Her balance was faltering, and her bones felt like jelly as he pressed harder, claiming every inch of her lips with the slip of his tongue; and he pushed her strands back with the clutch of his fingers, tilting her head back as he fully roamed into her mouth, reigniting flares of passion that seared through their hearts.

They kissed until their lungs strained, air pulses were absent and the world was off balance in those moments of holding onto to each other like anchors against the raging storm, as the sonic rumble of thunder resounded in their ears, Steve detached his mouth breathlessly, and pressed his forehead against hers, both regathering breath.

"I thought you were gonna to show my how to dance?" he whispered in a heavy pant, his lips ghosted raw heat over her bruised flesh.

"Oh, that's just the first step, Rogers," she smirked darkly, splaying her hand over the indention of his slick, hot muscles. "Now the fun really begins."

{End of Flashback}

* * *

_The stakes are higher. _Natasha conceived in a rational thought; feeling stripped bare of her vices, humanity exposed—she was vulnerable; a target to any old associate who had emerged from the chambers of the Red Room. The Winter Soldier's glacial presence did not evade her mind; Bucky was trapped in the dark, searching for answers that won't be scribbled on his collected Soviet file. And even though she couldn't detect him, since his last known sighting in Romania, her residual instincts sensed that he was still a potential threat to her and the baby's life. The Odessa scar never cooled, it kept burning every time his name crossed the forefront of her mind.

Easing down another vexed gurgle of nausea, Natasha expertly threw her balanced leg over the bike and eased herself down onto the hard saddle with poise and grace; her scanning teal eyes steadied on the small bump secured underneath the tri-weaved material of her tactical uniform—the baby was nestled safe in her expanding womb, just a clump of cells forming into a tiny human that would eventfully share her world.

It became difficult for her to fathom that she received the rare blessing of motherhood; after all her life's experiences in serving the Red Room—the KGB and SHIELD. When she felt little pulsations of a heartbeat, it was strong enough for her body to respond as jolts of enhanced serum embraced her child; merging with developing bones that would eventfully hold the raw, unbreakable, and indomitable power of Captain America.

"Let my body be your shield my little танцор..." She murmured in a soothing voice, sensing that her baby would hear that soft declaration. Curving her lips into a tentative smirk, carefully sliding her fingers over the small bump; her other hand slotted the key into the ignition. The bike's engine vroomed to life, emitting a deafening roar that carried the echoes of thunder.

Natasha grabbed the spare helmet off the handle bar, eased it over her rich locks, and fastened the chin strap. Another bombardment of morning sickness coiled in her stomach. Instead of giving it access to control her, she kept moving her hand over her belly, with gentle strokes.

She zoned in on the dials, waiting for a moment until the circular caps glowed vibrant red. It was exhilarating to reclaim independence; in some way, the baby was going onto the battlefield with her, most children would never share a hell raising experience with their parents, but this unborn child was the legacy of Captain America and the Black Widow—a new Avenger.

She kicked the chrome kick stand with a shove of her boot and clanked it into place. She firmly gripped the accelerator, revving the engine and feeling the horsepower vibrate through her body as it notched up to speed, and with a angled spun of wheel folk, she swerved the opposite way from the barn; pieces of stone flecked her leg and she hit full throttle, zooming down the driveway, taking a screeching turn and chased the dark walls of the rolling storm down the highway.

"Let me keep you safe from this world..."


End file.
